


The Prisoner-verse

by beetle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Draco hadn't become You-Know-Who's butt-monkey?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prisoner of Azkaban and Harry Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Crazy post-GoF AU-ness, set post-Hogwarts by eight years.

  
"Hail the Conquering Hero!" Draco crows and smirks, angling his head up off the grimy stone. Even in the uncertain cloudy moonlight, he doesn't have to squint, or guess who his first, and likely to be  _only_  visitor is. "Finally come to gloat, eh? Tsk-tsk . . . how unseemly."  
  
  
Potter doesn't answer, only stares and stares, until Draco starts to feel uncomfortable.  _More_  uncomfortable, if such a thing is possible while already bound from neck to ankles in conjured chains and laying on what may, sadly, be the cleanest floor Azkaban has to offer. . . .  
  
  
And still Potter simply stares as if at some truly mediocre piece of modern art.   
  
  
Draco rolls his eyes and tries to look haughtily unconcerned despite the persistent pain of his injuries; despite the distinct disadvantage of being bound, supine, starved, and filthy.  
  
  
"Don't you have Dark Lords to vanquish and hapless Muggles to rescue from grisly fates?" He asks crisply. Once again there's no reply as Potter continues to stare holes into him. "Which shouldn't suggest that I'm not delighted to see you, as always."   
  
  
It's also hard to snark and sneer when one is in pain, bound, supine, starved and filthy, but Draco manages rather well. He  _is_ , after all, a Malfoy.   
  
  
 _The_  Malfoy for a few years, now. Evident and slightly less evident disdain are his birthright.  
  
  
But Potter, however, remains fantastically unfazed--so unlike the boy Draco had enjoyed tormenting at Hogwarts. When this . . . man finally deigns to speak his tone is low and conversational. Amused, if the universe hates Draco as much as recent evidence seems to support.   
  
  
"You know, the rather more liberal half of the Wizengamot wants to see you rot away here for the rest of your natural life." Definitely amused, Potter's wide mouth threatens to twitch upward in that crooked, unselfconscious smile that still makes Draco see red.   
  
  
See all the blood on his own hands that's never,  _ever_  been Potter's . . . and now never will be.   
  
  
Draco snarls silently: split and peeling lips pull away from mossy teeth that haven't seen a cleaning spell or even a toothbrush in . . . far longer than he cares to think about.   
  
  
He doesn't realize he's shaking until the muted chink and rattle of his chains becomes noticeable over his own harsh, uncontrolled panting.  
  
  
 _Pull yourself together. Only Muggle-borns and half-bloods have the luxury of broadcasting their every emotion without having it used against them. As_ The _Malfoy, Draco,_ you _most certainly do_ not.  
  
  
It's jarring to once again hear his father's voice in his head . . . or is it his own voice? Certainly, it could be either, for as often as he's heard it cajoling and advising, egging him on and chewing him out in some of his best and worst moments of the past five years.  
  
  
For the first time since Newfoundland-Labrador--can it have been mere days ago that he was caught? It feels like it's been weeks--Draco's not alone inside his head.  
  
  
It feels almost like coming home.  
  
  
 _Never mind_  that the real Lucius is probably spinning in whatever remains of the family crypt, or--and here's the more likely scenario--writhing and screaming in Hell over the ragged and dodgy state of the last Malfoy scion.   
  
  
Draco bites his lip hard, loathe to show any feeling other than contempt. He has no idea if Potter expects a villain or a penitant, a madman or a martyr, but he intends to give him neither. To give nothing at all, if possible.   
  
  
Potter's smile acquires some teeth, far too many to make it the threat it surely is.  
  
  
As if his presence isn't threat enough.   
  
  
He leans back against the stone walls and glances around the cell with keen interest--more  _apparent_  interest than he's shown the occupant of said cell, scrutinizing every block and stone.   
  
  
Even down to the cracks and gouges, and the hand-shaped splotches of rusty brown that cover them. . . .  
  
  
Draco's bitten lip is droozling salt and copper into his mouth before he thinks to wrest his gaze away from Potter--shut out the bastard till he has the reins on his emotions and his tongue once more.  
  
  
Taking his own thousandth survey of cell--ever so much smaller than his dressing closet at Malfoy Manor had been--helps Draco clear his mind and heart of such useless emotions as rage, hatred, shame, and an irrational sense of betrayal.  
  
  
After a few minutes that leave him sodden in rank sweat, but no calmer for his efforts, he forces himself to wonder if his cell was the one Blood-traitor Black had been stashed in for the duration of his stay at Azkaban. If he'd screamed twelve years of Dementor-fueled insanity off these wall, and if Potter can somehow hear those screams.  
  
  
If Draco, himself, will live long enough to hear them, too. . . .   
  
  
Nevertheless, the thought of Black's suffering adds a much needed layer of smug to the Malfoy mask of satisfaction, and when he realizes Potter's watching him again, he allows himself to raise one perfect--if grimy--eyebrow in question, but nothing more.   
  
  
Pretends he's Lucius, in other words, and Potter is nothing more than the half-blood peon he is.  
  
  
Potter, of course, has to go and ruin it by saying:  
  
  
"The other half wants to see you thrown to the Dementors."  
  
  
The crash back to Earth is unpleasant, and accompanied by a convulsive shudder at the voicing of this most carefully repressed fear, and a tightening of his chest that has nothing to do with his bruised ribs. It takes Draco some moments to recover, and slightly longer to remember what Potter had said last.  
  
  
(Truth be told, he hasn't bothered to  _listen_  to anything Potter has said since their third year. It's always been some dull, self-pitying variation of  _blah-blah-blah Patronus, blah-blah-blah my parents, blah-blah-blah Voldemort._ )  
  
  
But he rallies his mind--no small feat for a man who, for some time, has been living on a starvation diet, when he's had a diet to live on at all--and braces himself against the familiar rage that bubbles up inside of him at everything Potter represents.   
  
  
Tries to focus not on his antipathy to the man's ideals, such as they are, but on the man himself. His success in this monumental undertaking--  
  
  
"And you've come to relay this unforeseen bit of news, have you? Honestly, Potter, without you to belabor the obvious for me, I don't know what I'd do!"  
  
  
\--is woefully limited, as he quite intensely  _loathes_  the man, irrespective of the ideals that have shaped him.  
  
  
 _C'est la vie. . . ._  Lucius whispers from the back of his brain, cordially disdainful of such self-indulgent whinging. It makes Draco wistful, a word that's usually far too insipid to describe any of his feelings toward Lucius.  
  
  
And so help him if the look on Potter's face isn't also slightly . . . wistful. For what, Draco couldn't begin to imagine, not that he even cares. "Malfoy--the Chief Warlock recently asked me what my opinion on this whole matter is--"  
  
  
"Yes, nothing says 'Modest Hero of the Wizarding World' quite like name-dropping, eh, Potter?"  
  
  
"--and d'you want to know what I said, Draco? Shall I tell you what I think?" He continues, as if Draco has a choice about hearing Potter's ragged little opinion on his fate.  
  
  
After a moment of consideration, Draco decides not to bristle at the smugness, or the unbidden use of his given name. If he's learned nothing else since Riddle's utter and deserved defeat, he's learned to choose his battles. Especially with the war a foregone conclusion. "I'm all aflutter."  
  
  
As if all that was wanting was for the words to animate him, Potter's striding across the cell. He kneels, heedless of the chill, filthy stone; one large, square hand settles over the loop of chain covering Draco's heart and sudden fear makes a cold sweat crop up all over his body. Even the celebrated Malfoy poise doesn't keep him from flinching back against the floor. Not when he'd once witnessed those hands--the hands of a man who, even Draco has to admit, had probably been one of the best Seekers of all time . . . the hands of someone he'd once thought of more as a general nuisance than an actual threat--close and open decisively, dead green light flaring around them as dead green words fell from his lips.  
  
  
All without benefit of his wand. . . .  
  
  
 _. . . Nott falls to the dungeon floor, wand rolling singed and powerless out of his hand--dead before the light in his eyes winks completely out.  
  
  
Parkinson screams, and it's like the wail of a wounded banshee. She would go to her husband, would crash to her knees to shake him, revive him, but for Draco's arms holding her back.  
  
  
"Murderer!" She screams at Potter, who's somehow managed to look scrawnier and more piteously alone than ever as he stares uncomprehendingly at his scraped, dirty, out-sized hands. His mouth works soundlessly and he shakes his head in utter disbelief. "Half-blood traitor!"  
  
  
And on and on Parkinson carries. Stupidly, as it causes Potter's eyes to finally drift to her, lit by guttering torchlight and with the most terrible, indescribable rage Draco has ever seen.  
  
  
Those large hands twitch once, twice, and Draco clamps down on Parkinson's arm so hard she stops hurling invective to cry out in surprised pain.   
  
  
"Be still, you silly girl!" He seethes in a voice that smacks of Severus Snape rather than Lucius, who is at that very moment stewing in Azkaban. Later, Draco will realize that, caught up as she was in the shocking _state _of Potter--of The Boy Who Triumphed--and then at Theodore's death, Parkinson hadn't even noticed Potter was still wandless. Had killed his tormentor in such a state.  
  
  
But Draco _had _noticed.  
  
  
Potter's hands curl into fists so tight, blood shortly begins to drip from them, and he takes a breath. His face, and under the ragged remains of his robe his body, is still bruised, scratched and otherwise marked from--whatever had been done to him. Draco chooses not to dwell on exactly what too-quiet, too-clever-by-half Theodore may have thought was fitting vengeance for the death of Nott Sr.  
  
  
Putting himself between a hysterical Parkinson and Potter--a move worthy of some Gryffindor fat-head, when any Slytherin worth his salt would have left the lovestruck little idiot to whatever dregs remain of Potter's mercy--and slowly eases his wand back into his robes.   
  
  
When he holds his empty hand out for Potter to see, that half-mad gaze ticks from Draco's hand to Parkinson, who's regained some of her good sense and is making herself as small as possible behind Draco.  
  
  
"You have no quarrel with us, Potter, understand?" Draco sways to his left a little to once again block Parkinson from Potter's sight and catch the nearly unbearable weight of his attention. "Theodore was your problem, and last I checked, Theodore's no longer here."  
  
  
Potter's gaze flicks over him, as if seeking out chinks in a familiar suit of armor. Draco's skin actually crawls, as if covered with some sort of stinging insects.  
  
  
"We didn't know, Potter," he says softly, in a too-calm voice he neither recognizes nor comprehends. Behind him, Parkinson stiffens at the half-lie. The day a Slytherin woman doesn't know all of her husband's secrets is the day Lucius smiles and kisses a Muggle. "Theodore was obviously mad--we couldn't have--"  
  
  
"Liar," Potter murmurs, making a dismissive shooing gesture with his right hand and Draco finds himself hitting a wall. Pain explodes in his right arm--shattered, though he doesn't know it yet--and ribcage--badly broken, though he doesn't know it yet. But through the incredible pain he can hear Parkinson's _no-no-no _s, see Potter advancing on her, his bloody hands rising inexorably as she backs toward the very cell Potter had been kept in.  
  
  
"I didn't know! He didn't confide in me--not about this!" She swears so convincingly, it would take a skilled Legilimens to belie her words.  
  
  
_Potter is skilled at many things, and lucky at lot more. But he's never had either talent or luck with that art, thank Merlin. _Draco thinks as red darkness nibbles away at the edges of sight._ Parkinson may live long enough to see the inside of Azkaban. _  
  
  
Then the world slips away for a time, but not before Draco hears a soft, merciless_ Legilimens _. . . .  
  
  
When the world returns sometime before dawn, the torches are all guttering. A slurred, crack-voiced _Lumos _and the faltering light of Draco's wand reveals he is alone but for the corpses of Pansy Parkinson- and Theodore Nott. . . ._  
  
  
Potter's eyes narrow suspiciously and the hand on Draco's chains presses down a little harder, the fingers clenching almost as if Potter wishes to rip his heart right out.  
  
  
From the feel of his face, the Malfoy sneer has vacated the premises, and been replaced by—Draco doesn't know what. A look of remembered pity, perhaps.  
  
  
It would seem, after all these years, he's finally discovered something he and Potter have in common: an irrational fear of being the object of another's pity, remembered or otherwise.  
  
  
Curling his lip in disgust that he still feels, yet markedly less keenly, Draco spits. "Perhaps it's escaped your notice, Potter, but I'm not Weasel, and so have no interest in being pawed by you. Kindly refrain from touching my person--or my chains unless you intend to remove them."  
  
  
As diversionary tactics go, this insult isn't terribly original or even good, but it does the job. And it does not escape  _Draco's_  notice that Potter is  _not_  refraining.  
  
  
(If Potter wished Draco to be--oh, not freed, surely not that, but spared the Dementor's Kiss, the Wizengamot would certainly oblige, wouldn't it? Even that old vulture Scrimegour couldn't deny  _Harry Potter_?)  
  
  
"You're really something, Malfoy." Potter rolls his eyes and sits back on his heels, that wistful smile gracing the strong, severe planes of his face again, and as if blinders are suddenly removed, Draco truly  _sees him_. Not The Boy Who Lived, or The Boy Who Triumphed, or even  _Harry J Potter, Auror_.   
  
  
He sees the drawn, stubbled face riven by far too many lines for a man of only--what? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?--surely no older than Draco. Sees grey--and even white streaking the neatly-tamed matte-black hair;  
  
  
the random scars on face, hands and neck, most of which still bear the faint, unwholesome shine of badly-healed curses. Proof that, like the clever idiots they  _were_ , both Riddle and Nott had rather play target practice with their mortal enemy than expedite his journey to the Netherworld;  
  
  
the expensively understated robes--tailored, if Draco's the judge of clothing he once was, and most definitely not chosen by Potter's indifferent eye. Weasley, perhaps? Not that that one would know the difference between a decent robe and a potato sack if they were hanging right next to each other.  
  
  
Potter has made many superficial changes that do little to cover the less superficial changes, just as the trademark wire-rim spectacles don't hide the changes in and behind his eyes.  
  
  
Those eyes no longer glow with a mixture of hubris, shallow self-righteousness, and stupidity that's characterized every 'Gryffindor' worthy of the title. Now . . . they are muted, almost murky, rather than the guileless green of new grass under a summer sun..   
  
  
A deep, dark-heart-of-the forest green, those eyes— _Kedavra_  green, and it occurs to Draco that the reason Potter hasn't removed his hand may be because Draco is about to die . . . with or without the say-so of the Wizengamot, or Wizarding Britain.  
  
  
Hadn't Draco just got through thinking that no-one has ever, or would ever deny The Boy Who Triumphed whatever his poor, oft-broken little heart desires?  
  
  
"Easy, Malfoy," Potter says quietly, his smile growing into a reassuring grin that few would resist even if presented with the option--the one that's graced thousands of editions of the  _Daily Prophet_  and  _Witch Weekly_. But those abyssal eyes are still watchful under their glaze of kindly amusement. "I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
  
Coming from Potter, that's worth a laugh, though it feels more like the yelp of a whipped dog. "If only to avoid putting further strain on that saintly conscience you pretend to have, eh?" It comes out before he can sensor it, stamp it down; the ugly, uncontrolled snarl is back on his face. He couldn't hold himself back now if Lucius was standing over him, the silver handle of his cane resting pressed warningly against Draco's throat.   
  
  
Family, power, fortune, respect--even the dubious company of his peers have all have been taken from him by this ratty, jumped-up half-blood of a wizard, whether directly or indirectly. That is something that can be neither forgiven, nor forgotten . . . is a feeling that is impossible to hide away. "So why are you here, hmm? In case you've forgotten--" a slight rocking motion causes Draco's chains to jingle like Christmas Eve, and his ribs--why is it always his bloody  _ribs_?--to scream like mountain cats. "I'm in chains, in a cell in Azkaban. That mudblood bitch Granger used an entire cauldron of Veritaserum to find out I know nothing more nor less about The Backlash than any other Pure-blood you've so graciously left alive. The Ministry has confiscated all Malfoy holdings and assets. I'm now  _wandless--you've won_ , Potter, don't you get it? What bloody more do you want from me?"  
  
  
Another speculative, tight-lipped moment of scrutiny from Potter and horror washes over Draco; for an unprecedented second time he's flinching away, swearing.  
  
  
Potter looks confused for a moment, the first genuine emotion on his face since he entered the cell. Then a light goes on somewhere behind those murky eyes and he snorts. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh and for a moment, Draco sees The-Boy-Who'd-Once-Turned-Down-A-Very-Generous-Offer-Of-Comradeship peering out of Potter's hooded gaze.  
  
  
"You needn't flatter yourself, Malfoy. I'm not here for  _that_."   
  
  
Relief. Though it's impossible to miss the fact that though Potter denied  _that_  was what he was here for, he hadn't denied he was _that way_ , or hotly decried Draco as 'mental' or 'barking' or some other charming Muggle-ism.  
  
  
And the hand stroking Draco's chains seems a little too gentle for his comfort.  
  
  
Well, he won't give Potter the satisfaction of flinching again. Or let the bastard forget with whom he's dealing, chains aside. "And it only took most of his life for the Hero of the Wizarding World to finally figure out what every other wizard and witch already knows." Draco leers. "A Weasley in his prime is only good for one thing. I suppose I should just be thankful you figured out what that one thing was."   
  
  
Judging from past experience (and from the warning flare in his eyes) casting more aspersions on Potter's . . . whatever . . . is probably not the smartest thing Draco has ever done. But it wipes that eery, considering look off of Potter's face. The look that replaces it is neither angry nor offended, just mild and impersonal.   
  
  
Well,  _well_  . . . someone's learned to present less of a target to his enemies. Draco can't even tell if he's scored a direct hit or not. Is tempted, only briefly, to try prodding the one subject even he considers off limits.  
  
  
Niggling, half-formed notions of fair-play aside, Draco is certain that if the walls surrounding that particular subject are successfully breached then neither Potter nor Azkaban might be standing in the wake of the resulting crumble.  
  
  
And that's assuming Potter's immediate response to whatever allusions Draco makes wouldn't be to lash out like a wounded animal, but to calmly hex him into silence and insensibility, and leave him to the Ministry and the Dementors.  
  
  
Which is a lot to assume, the man's iron-rigid will notwithstanding.  
  
  
Not that Draco has anything left to lose at this point but his life and/or soul--and there's really no point in kissing Potter's arse just to save  _those_ , is there?   
  
  
Is there?  
  
  
"So how much longer will I have to wait for you to come to your point, if there is such a thing?" The weight of two years of living on the run, hand-to-mouth, wandless but for black market knock-offs that provided him with barely enough focus to function settles on him like a large stone, pressing energy and air out of him. "Although . . . if you'll but lend me a wand, I'll be glad to try my hand at Legilimency to hasten matters along."   
  
  
Potter's eyes tick down to where he continues to stroke Draco's chains.  
  
  
"These look horribly uncomfortable," he notes after a few moments, plucking at the bonds curiously, as if he's never experienced a length of conjured chain before, when they both know he has.   
  
  
That bemused smile suddenly curves as sharp as a scythe, and Potter holds Draco's gaze as he says: " _Finite Incantatem_."  
  
  
There's a gentle tug from underneath him, as if he's laying on a blanket and someone is trying to ease it out from under him. The easing becomes yanking, and Draco's indignant squawk as the chains disappear becomes a bark of pain when he drops a jarring inch to the floor, knocking his head and bruised ribs against the stone.  
  
  
"Oh, you bastard--" he grits out, letting out a small cry when trying to roll onto his left side causes a fresh riptide of pain. The half-healed scabs and infected scrapes that are a testament to the DMLE's civilized treatment of its prisoner join the chorus of his unhappy ribs and head. "You goddamned bloody fucking  _bastard_!"   
  
  
Potter shushes him, pushes him flat onto his back once more and holds him down, that wide, scarred hand resting above his heart, which races under the thinnesses of shirt and skin, muscle and bone--tries to flee the death that's come to take him.   
  
  
The last thing Draco will ever see is the last thing Nott and Parkinson saw: Potter's square, intense face, thin lips curving in a beneficent, meaningless smile, even as they shape the Killing Curse. . . .  
  
  
" _Episkey_ ," Potter commands, and Draco's injuries--all incidental to being taken into custody . . . that consummate disgrace Weasley and his ever churlish, half-blood partner Finnigan had been a lot less gentle than even Draco would have expected--begin to tingle, to knit and heal so fast it leaves him curled into a ball and shuddering in reaction.  
  
  
Such is Potter's strength, even the teeth that Finnegan had knocked loose become firmly entrenched in his gums again.  
  
  
When the spell completes its task, Draco is in--not perfect health, but what passed for it before the gentle ministrations of Magical Law Enforcement's rising-star Aurors.   
  
  
"There," Potter says, a twinkle in his eyes. "That's better, isn't it?"  
  
  
It has the unsubtle ring of an old in-joke, but surprisingly Draco's in no mood to parse the so-called humor. He tries to roll farther away from Potter, as if that'll do any good, trapped as he is between a rock and a hard place. He has no idea what the man wants, if not to kill or in some way besmirch him. Even now, Potter hardly seems the type.  
  
  
"Your sentence has been commuted, Malfoy. The conviction will, of course, remain on your record--"  
  
  
"Conviction? Funny, I don't recall the pressing of formal charges, or being present at a trial. And I've yet to be given my one floo-call." The Lucius-voice speaking for Draco, whose mind is still reeling.  
  
  
"You'll get five years probation, and, as you've pointed out, the Malfoy assets have long since been seized by the Ministry," Potter continues softly, frowning a little. As if he disapproves of his precious Ministry soiling its hands with Death Eater lucre.  
  
  
Some things never change.  
  
  
Draco starts laughing breathlessly. His stomach cringes against his backbone and tears leak out of his eyes. Undignified doesn't even touch on the feeling coursing through him, but in the past few years, Malfoy dignity has been as bountiful as Weasley intelligence . . . which is to say rare to the point of non-existence.  
  
  
"All right there, Malfoy?" Potter asks warily, but goes on without waiting for an answer. "You're to serve your five years with me, at the end of which, if the Wizengamot finds you fit, you'll be free."   
  
  
After the initial flare of rage, Draco's laughing again, harder this time. There's an hysterical edge to it that'd frighten him if he weren't so very tired. Tired of running, and feeling trapped and hopelessly out-maneuvered.  
  
  
"Ah, yes . . . what  _does_  the Wizengamot get the hero who has everything? An 'accused' Dark Wizard! Oh,  _jolly_  good!" He mockingly applauds Potter's ingenuity, applauds the Wizengamot's fawning lack of spine. His own foolishness for thinking Potter above gloating.   
  
  
He's tempted to throw this . . . probation in Potter's face, but as boxed into a corner as he feels, he's not quite ready to die. He'll accept this probation. Not thankfully, but still. "And what in the Wizarding World will you do with me, now that you have me?"  
  
  
"Finally, an intelligent question. Took a lot longer than I thought it would, too." Potter sniffs and stands up, his knees popping. He takes his spectacles off and blinks at Draco myopically, probably waiting for his eyes to adjust. Only a stupid Muggle-raised would tolerate less than perfect vision when a costly, but relatively simple potion could have one seeing through walls, if one so chose.  
  
  
Potter holds his palm up and squints at the spectacles sitting on his palm. His nostrils flare momentarily--and the spectacles transfigure into a pocket-watch.   
  
  
Flare--   
  
  
\--and there's a mouse scampering up Potter's sleeve a second later.  
  
  
"Merlin's beard," escapes Draco's lips before he can stop himself. His eyes, he knows, are as round as quaffles. He's seen very minor feats of wandless magic before, mostly from upset, untutored children. The two major displays he's ever seen were both done by Potter, and all resulted in the death of someone Draco knew, if not cared for.  
  
  
Compared to the Killing Curse, two relatively common Transfigurations are nothing, but the throw-away ease with which they're done is breath-taking, nonetheless.   
  
  
"Wandless magic." Potter belabors the obvious yet again, his lips twitching upward. He smirks--or the closest a Gryffindor could come, at any rate--and a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles tumble off his shoulder to land in his palm.  
  
  
"You wanted to know what I'll I do with you, now that I have you," Potter says blandly, pushing the specs back onto his face before holding out his hand to Draco, who does not take it. "I'm going to fix you like I would a crashed computer: rebuild your operating system from the ground up, with better software and passwords only I know. And yes, I realize you have no idea what any of that means, but I'm certain you take my meaning."  
  
  
No, Draco  _couldn't_  imagine what a cump-PYOO-tor is, but yes, he does take Potter's meaning quite clearly. He's left gaping and utterly aghast when his amusement dies as suddenly as if its throat had been cut.  
  
  
Oh, but this isn't the first time a half-blood with more magic than breeding has tried to bend and subvert the Malfoy heir to his will, is it? While Potter may have only half the personal charisma of Tom Riddle in his prime, he's got twice the power and the backing of an entire world.  
  
  
And Draco, on his best day, has never had the focus or willpower Lucius had managed to bring to bear even as he lay dying. . . .  
  
  
"There are, of course, conditions to your probation. As you may or may not have heard, after I retired last year I joined the staff of Hogwarts as the Defense Against The Dark Arts professor." There's a flicker in Potter's eyes before he turns away from Draco, the outstretched hand joining its mate in the pockets of Potter's tailored slacks. "As part of your rehabilitation, the position of apprentice is conferred upon you, apprenticeship to be served under Potions Master Horace E. F. Slughorn. Under Professor Slughorn's--and my supervision, you will be trained, and when deemed ready, you will take over as Hogwarts' Professor of Potions and Head of Slytherin House."  
  
  
The matter-of-fact air with which Potter dictates the rest of Draco's life--teaching and tending to half- and mudblood brats still looks to be a step or two above the squalid fugitive life he's been living for the past two years, if Potter's presence in it is somehow overlooked--is far more dismaying than the future itself. But more dismaying than both of those things combined, and increased by a factor of ten, is the specter of  _why_.  
  
  
What's the real reason behind Potter's offer, and what does he  _really_  hope to have accomplished at the end of five years? Is Draco likely to survive it, whatever it is? Potter's best intentions have a way of getting the people around him maimed or worse.  
  
  
"Listen here, you strutting, insufferable ape-- _tell me what you want of me_?" Draco hisses, pushing himself upright with a groan. The room spins from the change in height, in blood flow. From days of a starving belly. "Whatever it is, you'll get it a hell of a lot faster with my cooperation than without!"  
  
  
 _Potter_  laughs now, low and dryly sardonic, sounding too like the Lucius-voice in Draco's head. "You're assuming your knowledge is necessary, your cooperation wanted. That's quite lot to assume, Draco, my iron-rigid will notwithstanding--"  
  
  
" _Stay the bloody hell out of my head!_ " Draco thunders--tries to thunder, but it comes out as a querulous screech. All his energy is going toward bolstering what faded skill at Occlumency he possess, but he knows it's too late. Potter's been strolling in and out of his head, at will, since the moment he entered the cell. No doubt latched onto the vulnerable underbelly of Draco's uncontrolled emotions like a lamprey.  
  
  
But although Draco understands this, it's been long and long since he's had to hold his own against Legilimency, or his own traitorous emotions. Tears that burn like fire gather freely in his eyes, and rush to scald his clammy, dirty cheeks.  
  
  
 _That's all, then,_  a small voice from within acknowledges—the preternaturally calm eye at the center of a hurricane that's crowding out everything.  _Everything_  but the realization that Potter has, at last, managed to  _take_  everything that ever mattered to Draco: his family, the respect the Malfoy name once commanded, and probably the least of these things, but still treasured, his own sense of self. The security of knowing his place in the world.  
  
  
The eye of calm is shrinking, besieged on all sides by the winds of unreason and despair. Calling the Dementors to finish him now would be a blessing and a formality. All that was once his and no one else's is now Potter's, to be taken at will, perused and laughed over at his leisure.   
  
  
For all intents and purposes, Draco Malfoy is dead and gone.  
  
  
"Malfoy!" Draco blinks at the sudden sting on his right cheek. He's been slapped, and Potter is kneeling by his side, peering worriedly into his face. Into his eyes. The knowledge he sees there reminds him that Potter can get into his mind any time he wants, wand or no wand, words or no words, eye contact be bloody well damned.  
  
  
Fighting Potter is as pointless as it ever was.  
  
  
::You've fought every person you've ever known--your father, Voldemort and yourself included--to be your own man . . . only to give up now, because of me?:: Potter's mental voice rings like church bells--an alien creature inside his skull, too sanctimonious and clarion-pure to be borne. ::Then you're right. I  _do_  own you, now. Mind, body, and soul, just the way Voldemort owned Lucius.::  
  
  
"Don't you say his name!" Draco's voice reverberates off the stones, deep and slightly rasping. If he wasn't covering his ears in an utterly futile gesture, he'd hear the uncanny resemblance to Lucius's own low tones of command. If he wasn't hunched over, his eyes squeezed shut to block tears, he'd see Potter flinch back at that resemblance. "I swear I'll kill you if you don't stay out of my head--!"  
  
  
“Oh, will you?!” Hard hands grasp his biceps easily and he's wrested to the floor, straddled and pinned by twelve stone of contemptuous, narrow-eyed hero. Then those bloody great troll-hands twine into his hair, trapping his head on the floor.  
  
  
::You want me out of here, Malfoy? Want me to let you go?:: The level of disdain in Potter's sneer is rivaled only by the contempt battering Draco's mind. ::Then  _make_  me get out. Make me let you go, or you'll hear me in your head, feel me over your shoulder forever.::   
  
  
Potter leans down, far too close, his pale face and Killing Curse-eyes filling Draco's reality. He smells of outside . . . of grass and rain, and very faintly whatever resinous broom polish he prefers. He's heavy, and hearth-warm, and--and--  
  
  
 _Draco sees himself: impossibly tall, impossibly handsome, impossibly young. Standing in a dark doorway but limned in golden torchlight, his pale face a stark, sharp-edged mask of determination, his grey eyes stone-cold and grim.  
  
  
At his younger self's side, tugging at his arm in a vain attempt to get him to turn around, is Parkinson--Pansy, as Draco's almost never thought of her.  
  
  
"Come away, Draco--it's already done!" She says, her wide dark eyes darting between Younger-Draco and—Draco.  
  
  
"He's bloody  _trembling_ , Parkinson, and that means he's still alive. It also means nothing's done except this madness! Has he been here all this time?" Younger-Draco demands, horrified and angry. Pansy tries to glare defiantly, but just wilts under Draco's stare, like she has since first year. "Ye gods, what's been _done _to him? He's nothing but bones, hair and dried blood!"  
  
  
Younger-Draco steps forward, shaking Pansy off roughly. Even in the dark Draco, despite his unusually wonky vision, can make out his own face--his father's face--carved from ice and marble. This younger self kneels, pristine silver-and-green robes billowing out around him.  
  
  
"Potter?” He says, his voice made ragged and harsh by pity and hate. “Damn you, you _are _still alive, aren't you, Potter?_ Harry _\--"  
  
  
Suddenly everything changes: the world rotates once, like a pensieve gone crazy, and Draco's in a room that's filled with light, or seems to be after the gloom of the cell. At his side, long hand clamped around his right arm, is Younger-Draco . . . in front of them both is a nightmare blur of grey business robes, sandy-brown hair and narrow fox-like features.  
  
  
"Blood-traitor," the Nightmare hisses, exposing long, slightly pointed teeth, his wand pointed at Younger-Draco. "It's not enough you betrayed our lord, not enough you stand by those who saw your parents put into Azkaban. Now you stand against your own house-mate for this--this half-blood's miserable life?"  
  
  
Younger-Draco's hand loosens just enough for Draco's heart to sink. But he raises his head, which seems to weigh a thousand pounds at least, and is soon staring into his younger self's eyes once more. They're uncertain, torn. But he sees something he'd never thought to see. It's buried under two dozen generations of Malfoy expectations, but there.  
  
  
Compassion.  
  
  
Draco's mouth opens and the words that emerge are pitiful, in a voice that most definitely isn't his own.  
  
  
"Please don't leave me here, Draco," he husks, his legs giving out. Younger-Draco catches him and the Nightmare catches them both with an amused _Expelliarmus _. Younger-Draco's wand flies out of his hand and he topples to the ground, taking Draco with him.  
  
  
His younger self has taken the brunt of spell, twitching and moaning, scrabbling weakly for the wand that might as well lay half a Quidditch pitch away, for all the good it's doing either of them.   
  
  
A moan of frustration escapes Draco's lips and the Nightmare laughs.   
  
  
"This is what the Wizarding World holds up as a model of perfection? _This _is what even a Pure-blood wizard must fashion himself after? How pathetic," it says, taking an unhurried step closer, wand extended like the promise of doom. "To think I once feared you. . . ."  
  
  
Draco rolls to his side, then his knees, watching the Nightmare laugh and laugh. Rage like nothing he's ever felt before, so big he can barely contain it, fills him with something cold, and . . . hungry.  
  
  
Pansy almost starts toward them, then stops, her frantic eyes sliding from Younger-Draco to her chuckling husband. "Don't hurt him, he's just--he's confused--"  
  
  
"_Do _be silent, darling," the Nightmare murmurs in an overly-honeyed tone that sounds dangerously like an order, leveling its wand at Younger-Draco, the savior, the one who came when no one else did, after he had long since lost hope.  
  
  
That impossibly young--impossibly naive face, grim with resignation. turns to Draco for a moment . . . bitter and sardonic . . . not quite regretful.  
  
  
"I'll leave the heroics to you Gryffs next time, shall I?" He says before he's focused on the Nightmare's--on _Nott _'s wand, on lips that are even now forming a spell--  
  
  
"Sectum--"  
  
  
"_Avada Kedavra _!" Draco shouts and light, green as floo-smoke, explodes from within him and--_  
  
  
\--too  _present_ , he's too  _there_ , leaving no room for anything else, no room for  _Draco_ , a bee-hive buzz of unfamiliar thoughts and memories edging out his own. But in seconds, the buzz narrows again, into one dinning thought that scorches him with its power, blinds him with its intensity.  
  
  
He doesn't say  _Expelliarmus!_  so much as he feels it, bends all that remains of himself on that one spell. All the grief and anger and fear within him coils and bunches like rusty springs, only to let go in Potter's direction, flowing out of him in a painful rush of power that leaves him even more empty and weightless.  
  
  
Twelve stone of scar-headed Gryffindor--including those brutish, utterly ridiculous hands--flies backwards, to land flat on his back with a pained grunt.   
  
  
There's a sudden deafening silence in Draco's head, and an absence of unfamiliar feelings and memories.  
  
  
 _That felt good,_  he thinks, almost smiling, pushing himself up and to his knees.  _That felt bloody brilliant._  
  
  
It's nearly a minute before Potter even attempts to sit up, and when he does, Draco's ready; he lunges at him, tackling him back to the floor. Knocks the wind out of him--somehow pins Potter's sturdier body to the floor, bony knees digging into solid calves, his hands around Potter's neck.  
  
  
The look of surprise--not fear, Potter has never  _feared_  Draco and never will--in his eyes barely registers, as does the fact that he's performed a significant spell without a wand, no . . . he's breathing in Potter's face now, hot and fetid. His own face, he knows, is a ghoulish caricature of what it once was: a ruin of freshly-healed hexes and lacerations, filthy, gaunt and corpse-white. The pale hair that hangs in it and straggles down to brush Potter's face is greasy and lank with a mixture of blood, grime, and nearly a week's worth of fear-sweat.  
  
  
He is, he knows, a less than pleasant sensory experience. For the first time in his life, he truly couldn't care less.  
  
  
"My father let himself be shackled to a power-mad half-blood with delusions of grandeur, and all it got him was a place of honor in the Malfoy crypt." Draco leans down till they're nose-to-nose. "I'd rather rot here, or be a Dementor's dinner than end that way, do you hear? Is that getting through your thick. Gryffindor. Skull?"  
  
  
Every word is a thump that raps Potter's head smartly on the stone, though but for a wince here or there, Potter just continues to stare up at him, Kedavra-eyes twinkling--flashing like some unholy version of that scatty old busybody Dumbledore's. It's an easy enough thing to press down hard on that neck, squeeze till the rapid pulse hammering against his palms speeds up briefly, then slows.  
  
  
 _MacNair grins up at him through bloody, torn lips, wheezing laughter as Draco's hands tighten. The deep, still silence at his back--the silence of the dead--only emphasizes the hideous laughter.  
  
  
"Silly little boy," MacNair croaks, his heart's blood flecking Draco's face with every hissed syllable. He's never wanted to kill anyone the way he wants to kill MacNair, and this want--this _desire _, fills the yawning emptiness within. Cauterizes and soothes the raw edges of the hole where his soul used to be. "Still riding your father's coattails, even n--."  
  
  
"_Crucio _!" Draco snaps before he's aware of doing so, and MacNair's body thrashes powerfully in the throes of the Curse. The hands Draco had been using to suffocate now keep him from being pitched off the man entirely.  
  
  
Yes, MacNair's a powerful old bastard, as stubborn as he is evil. The Cruciatus Lucius had cast and held till the moment of his death should have killed him. Blood loss and shock from any of a dozen hexes should have killed him, just as Lucius was felled.  
  
  
This second bout of Cruciatus, added to those things, should have shuffled MacNair off the mortal coil within minutes, but hasn't.  
  
  
_It is of no matter, _Lucius notes serenely, not from the battered, still-warm corpse behind him, but from right inside Draco's head.  
  
  
_ Never mind _that it's Draco's fault his parents were sent to Azkaban, where his mother hanged herself with braided strips of her own once fine robes, and that after two years of the Dementors chipping away at him, Lucius had been desperate enough to rely on MacNair to help him escape.  
  
  
Never mind all of that, because Lucius understands. He doesn't forgive, of course. Not in the Malfoy lexicon, that. But he understands, oh, yes. So he and Draco watch as it becomes a toss-up as to whether most of MacNair's convulsions are caused by the Cruciatus, or the stress on the once strong body underneath them.  
  
  
But that, too, is of no matter. Even as the _Finite Incantatem _leaves his lips, Draco's fingers--ghost-pallid and precise, though covered in his father's and MacNair's blood--bite deeper into twitching flesh, his nails puncturing skin and piercing muscle.  
  
  
In the end, it is neither repeated Cruciatus--each as wandless as the one preceding, not that Draco will consciously remember this, for all that his memories of the night are crystal clear--nor suffocation, nor blood loss that ends MacNair's miserable life, but a snapped neck. The calm, approving laughter inside Draco's head makes the final _crack _of fracturing bone that much sweeter. . . ._  
  
  
The right time for killing Potter was seven years ago, but this is the second and second best chance Draco will get. Despite Potter's surprising surprise though, he expects that at any moment the man's own wandless magic will rally, and swat him like a fly. If by some miracle it doesn't, well. . . .  
  
  
It isn't as if cold-blooded murder is something Draco's unfamiliar with.  
  
  
::I don't imagine it is.:: Potter's eyes flutter but don't lose a whit of that expectant intensity. ::You saved my life once, Draco. Would you take it away so quickly?::   
  
  
"In a heartbeat." Draco's hands squeeze a little harder, immediately cutting off oxygen completely. A little harder and he'll be putting pressure on nerves that'll snuff out consciousness like a candle in a high wind. From there, the rest is easy. A pie-walk, as the Muggle-borns say.  
  
  
Potter will wake up in Hell with a snapped neck and three quarters of Britain's welcoming Pure-bloods for company.   
  
  
Perhaps they'll even save Draco a seat of honor for accomplishing what they hadn't . . . but he rather doubts that.   
  
  
C'est la vie . . . he squeezes, anyway. His hands aren't like Potter's hands--neither so large nor strong. But there's enough strength in him to end his enemy's life before his own is forfeited to the crack team of Aurors who manage Azkaban these days.  
  
  
Only. . . .  
  
  
MacNair had not looked so innocent, had he? Accepting, yes, but not innocent. Potter looks--his eyes are fluttering, but closed more than they're open. His right hand flops onto Draco's left--not trying to stop it, so much as just resting there with a strange air of . . . something.   
  
  
Not that it matters, since one or both of them will right die here, and it'll be over at last.   
  
  
But then, it won't be over, will it? That look in Potter's closing eyes--protectiveness? Forgiveness? Pureness of heart? Dyspepsia? Whatever it is--is an essential bit of  _Potter-ness_  that Draco thought as dead as Theodore Nott. The bit Draco hadn't been quick enough or cunning enough to save.   
  
  
It's the absence of that look that made it alright--no,  _imperative_  that Potter die, because in the end, nothing had been saved. That latest in a long line of betrayals had cost Draco his entire world, had netted neither Potter, nor himself anything but seven years of misery and regrets.  
  
  
Years that no amount of time can ever justify or make right.  
  
  
Only . . . maybe it can. Draco  _had_  saved that look. He'd  _saved_  it, and if he kills Potter now, it will haunt him for eternity, and there'll never be an end to any of this.   
  
  
When the proper moment for revenge presents itself, he's never hesitated to move in for the kill. Now, however, he has, to wonder why  _Potter_ , The Man Who Could Kill With A Thought, is doing the same.  
  
  
And what more proof does Draco needs that, even with his lips turning that delicate shade of robin's egg blue, Potter is no Walden MacNair, about whose death Draco'd felt neither hesitation or guilt, only sweet certainty?   
  
  
Now, Draco's taken with a similar, but opposing certainty: vengeance will be decidedly foul, should either of them prevail here.  
  
  
His hands open harmlessly and slide down to Potter's collarbone; his legs slip off of Potter's and he collapses to the side panting, his entire body shaking.  
  
  
"I hate you," he sighs as Potter coughs and coughs--retches and groans, turning his back to Draco. His tailored robes look much less so; are grimy, and a bit torn. The tamed, stylishly cut hair is now a thatchy, tangled mess and his spectacles lay broken in half on the floor some feet beyond Potter's heaving, vulnerable torso.   
  
  
Draco shakes his head and rolls onto his back.  _Stupid, trusting Gryffindors. Some things never change._  
  
  
The Lucius who raised him, and the one that lives on in him have both taught him well. He doesn't even have to listen to the whispers in his head to follow them to the letter; just do as they say and take comfort in their presence and the sense of purpose they impart.  
  
  
But after seven years of regretting one decision--of mourning every what-if that his inner-Lucius has seen fit to plague him with, he finds that there's no longer any comfort or atonement to be had from blind obedience. There never has been, really.  
  
  
 _Is that why I didn't let you die, Potter?_  Draco thinks, but there's barely any rancor left to the thought. He's also pleased when Potter doesn't respond to it. "You really are quite a nuisance. I should've killed you just now, and had done with you."  
  
  
"Perhaps," Potter replies a few minutes later, his voice no longer genial and smug, but as raw and rough as the stones around them. There's a rustle of expensive wool and a tired laugh. "But you didn't."  
  
  
"No, I didn't." He glances over into solemn eyes that are no longer twinkling, but neither are they quite as murky as they had been a few minutes ago.  
  
  
Something tugs at Potter's mouth, twitches the sides of it. It could be a smile . . . though as things stand, Draco rather doubts  _that_ , as well.  
  
  
Till Potter looks away, up at the gloom shrouded ceiling--but not before the twitching gives way to a wry half-smile after all. His lips have darkened from delicate blue to a pinkening lavender.   
  
  
Huffing, Draco looks up at the blasted ceiling too, his empty stomach angrily twisting itself into even more knots.   
  
  
"It's a start," Potter says a few minutes later and Draco snorts, wondering which of them he's trying to convince.  
  
  



	2. The First Hours of the Rest of His Life 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I should think the summary-length title says it all ::sniffs::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU after GoF, set eight years post-Hogwarts.

"Can I reiterate just how bad an idea this is?"  
  
  
Weasley's ears are brick-red on either side of his long, freckled face. The fact that he's wearing funereal-black robes doesn't help his pasty complexion at all.  
  
  
"Ron--"  
  
  
"And can I reiterate his reiteration?" Finnigan adds, eying Draco as if he'd like to swing on him. Again. From his strategic position behind Potter--only slightly behind--Draco rolls his eyes.  
  
  
"The Wizengamot voted, and Shacklebolt and Tonks signed off on it," Potter says patiently enough. This time though, he doesn't bother to pull out the order, which is a shame. It had tickled Draco no end to see the looks on the Deficient Duo's faces every time they read the scrollwork then cast  _Revealio_ s and  _Reverto_ s upon it.  
  
  
All for naught.   
  
  
"You're both free to appeal the decision, of course, as is any citizen of Wizarding Britain," Potter goes on, pedantically. "But I should tell you it'll be a complete waste of everyones' time and the Ministry's resources."   
  
  
"Who's side are you on, mate?" Finnegan demands, the explosive, angry bull to Weasley's plaintive, gobstruck cow. And he's still doing his mediocre damnedest to stare holes into Draco.   
  
  
Having been stared down by the likes of Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape--sometimes within hours of each other--Draco could teach the half-blood cretin a thing or two about stare-downs.  
  
  
Could, that is, if he cared to. As it is, he's nearly bored to tears by this far-too-plebeian scene.  
  
  
He steps away from Potter and toward the row of uncomfortable looking chairs against the wall. After days laying down, simply sitting is its own reward.   
  
  
Finnegan's wand--thick and brutish, as befits its owner--follows, like a dim-witted hound.  
  
  
Draco almost blows Finnigan a kiss . . . but decides now isn't the time to test either the boundaries of Potter's mercy or the quickness of his reflexes. He settles for casting the lout an oft-used opaque look, which causes him to scowl even more unattractively.  
  
  
". . . side of the law, Seamus. As always," Potter is saying, still patiently but with weary irritation creeping into his voice at last. It's only taken nearly an hour of being waylaid in the small ante-chamber of the Head Auror's office to accomplish even that much.   
  
  
Tonks-Lupin, herself, after a perfunctory meet and greet, and a few veiled threats to Draco--and surprisingly Potter--had gone home. Her personal assistant, a Delacour-lovely young witch, left half an hour later, reminding Weasley and Finnigan to lock up behind themselves and not destroy the furniture.  
  
  
"The side of the law? Sod's law, maybe." Weasley, still looking as haggard and strained as he had in Newfoundland-Labrador, runs a hand over his rubbery, bland face, all washed-out freckles and betrayed eyes that have yet to stray to Draco. "Bloody hell, I can't even tell if this is the usual Ministry cock-up, or a bloody conspiracy!"  
  
  
Potter's tenor of exasperation has a tinge of amusement. "It's neither, I can promise you."  
  
  
"It's sure as hell  _something_ , mate!"   
  
  
Were he to start lowing forlornly, Weasley's resemblance to a cow would be complete. But Draco's luck is rarely that good anymore, and he resigns himself to another hour of tedium and histrionics.   
  
  
"The law's been wrong before," Weasley goes on carefully, almost unwillingly, like a man tiptoeing across dangerous, boggy ground. The silence between he and Potter stretches out for uncomfortable seconds that feel like hours. " _You've_  been wrong before."   
  
  
"Not this time," Potter replies in a soft, tense voice that means  _back off_. But for someone who's known the man for most of their lives, Weasley seems not to realize. Or perhaps he no longer cares.   
  
  
"I've said it before and I'll say it as many times as it takes to get it through your head, Harry: there isn't a witch or wizard who went bad that wasn't in Slytherin. And half of them were in  _our_  bloody year! Crabbe and Goyle, Nott and Parkinson, Greengrass,  _Zabini_ \--"   
  
  
"Leave it be, Ronny. It's ancient history, that." Finnigan's feeble, half-hearted attempt at playing peacemaker. Weasley doesn't even acknowledge him. Neither does Potter, for that matter.   
  
  
"--just don't understand how you could sanction something like this! Malfoy's a murderer--"  
  
  
"And not the only murderer in this room, or have you forgotten?" Potter retorts, a gauntlet that even oblivious Weasley seems temporarily leery of taking up. Finnigan merely looks between the two of them, confused and unhappy. Neither Potter nor Weasley notices his horrified: "Ronny--have you murdered someone?"  
  
  
Doubtful. But Draco could murder  _himself_  for getting captured by these two shining lights of Magical Law Enforcement.   
  
  
(Could also, were he so inclined, leap at either numbskull . . . taking his wand and his life before Potter recovered from the shock and  _Stupefy_ ed him.  
  
  
He's found that it helps, in these trying times, to lead a rich fantasy life.)  
  
  
"That's completely different, Harry!" A flash of that famed Gryffindor fraternité from Weasel. And only five seconds--five years too late to do any good, from the look on Potter's face. "It's not the same thing, and you know it!"  
  
  
"So you continue to tell yourself." The bored, almost patronizing tone finally penetrates Weasley's unusually thick armor of idiocy. He looks down, shaking his head as if he's given up, and so he misses the twitch of a satisfied smile that  _almost_  crosses his erstwhile best friend's face.   
  
  
 _Potter, you manipulative little cur--I_ do _find myself hating you slightly less. This show is finally getting interesting._  Draco leans back in his uncomfortable chair, not even bothering to glance Finnigan's way.  
  
  
"Sometimes . . . sometimes  _people_  commit crimes as a result of trauma. Then they feel guilty about it when they've come back to their senses, back to who they really are . . . they continue to feel guilty about it, even years later." That pleading tone again as Weasley fumbles his way through feel-good dreck that sounds almost like pity.   
  
  
Enough like it that Draco understands more about the fractures in this infamous friendship than Weasley ever will.   
  
  
When Potter's only response is that hooded, waiting stare, Weasley sighs. "What Malfoy did was cold-blooded  _murder_. Premeditated, and carried out without a second thought! Any person in their right mind can see there's no comparison!"  
  
  
For once in his misbegotten life, Weasley is right. Draco doesn't despise the git any less, but he's a big enough man to give credit where it's due. Comparing Potter's trauma-induced, two-wizard killing-spree to the well-oiled machine of Draco's vengeance is laughable beyond insult.  
  
  
Potter leans heavily on the edge of the assistant's desk. His face has fallen into well-worn lines of frustration, but his eyes are still shadowed and unreadable. "And any person in their right mind won't try to make ridiculous excuses for the crimes others have committed. Just as I'm not about to make excuses for Malfoy."   
  
  
Finnigan's wandering attention snaps back to Draco, who smiles with malevolent saccharinity.  
  
  
" _Harry_. . . ." the plaintive bleat of the Worried Weasley. Draco's been hearing it off and on for more than fifteen years and is heartily sick of it. Can't imagine how Potter's put up with hearing it constantly.  
  
  
" _Ron_ \--we've only just stopped teetering on the brink of civil war. Many, if not most of the Purebloods still alive supported The Backlash philosophically, if not in actuality--"  
  
  
"Not the Weasleys!" Weasley turns a murderous hazel glare on Draco when he snorts. But that doesn't change the fact that most Purebloods of good breeding and station would sooner marry a Muggle than share any common ground with a Weasley. "Not the Longbottoms, or the Bones', or the Lovegoods, or even the bloody Bulstrodes--"  
  
  
"Yes, I know that, Ron. I know the Ministry appreciates the support and concern of its Pureblood constituents." Ghost of a delightfully insincere smile, because if Potter's become nothing else over time, he's become a company man. "But I also know that Malfoy's death--or even imprisonment--would set the unity we're all striving so hard for back a decade. Cost us a lot of ground with Pureblood wizarding families whose loyalties we haven't secured."  
  
  
"Why should any Pureblood that rooted for The Backlash care what happens to this Judas goat?" Finnigan huffs, waving his wand--which is still pointed at Draco--in careless little circles. Draco sighs, and hopes the cack-handed git's outgrown blowing up everything he swishes-and-flicks at.   
  
  
Though, both their recent luck being what it is, it's more likely Draco'll end up as bottle of rum.  
  
  
"They  _don't_  care what happens to Malfoy," Potter says off-handedly, shooting Draco an unreadable glance. Whatever he expects to see--tears, tempest, fury--Draco makes sure to disappoint him, though it takes effort. "They  _do_ , however, care what happens to a fellow Pureblood. The Ministry made them a promise to end the persecution of Purebloods. Executing or imprisoning the last of a Pureblood house on the heels of that promise. . . ."  
  
  
"So the only alternative is to let the bastard go free!" Weasley throws up his hands in mock-surrender. "Of course! It makes so much sense, now!"  
  
  
"It's a commuted sentence with five years probation, confined to Hogwarts grounds, with limited access to Hogsmeade only if accompanied by myself, Slughorn, or an Auror. That's hardly  _freedom_ \--"  
  
  
"It's a technicality, is what it is." This quiet declaration from Weasel, who's studying Potter as if trying to figure out a total stranger. "He's done unspeakable things, Harry. Things worthy of every year he would've spent in Azkaban and a few more, besides."   
  
  
 _Weasel always was quite the flatterer,_  Draco thinks almost fondly, showing his teeth in another smile that's mostly snarl.   
  
  
Weasley sighs when Potter doesn't respond. "He's a monster, or can't you see that, anymore?"  
  
  
This is not a rhetorical question, and even Finnigan is listening for the answer.  
  
  
It's probably nothing worth perking an ear for--likely more Ministry-sanctioned falderol about its duty to the poor, beleaguered Purebloods. But perk an ear Draco does. Two of them, and his eyes as well, since the trick to Potter is not necessarily his words, but those shuttered eyes.  
  
  
Suddenly the focus of every gaze in the room, Potter doesn't fidget, only looks each of them in the eye . . . Draco last of all. There's nothing in the green of them, either dark or bright, but a wall of determination. The kind of wall that such as Weasley and Finnigan could attempt to break through for the rest of their lives and only dash themselves to pieces against in the end.  
  
  
Though there is a brief flicker of . . . something when Potter's gaze lands on Draco. Probably smug satisfaction, though it's disguised as pensiveness.  
  
  
::Potter, you rodent, if you can hear me right now . . . stay out of my head, or I really will snap your neck.:: Draco narrows his eyes, letting his face screw into the sneer he was probably born wearing.   
  
  
There isn't so much as a glint of acknowledgment in Potter's eyes or face to show that he's heard. Which means nothing at all. Time and circumstance have made Potter a much better actor than he used to be, has taught him something that could be called prevarication in a less upstanding wizard.  
  
  
"I see more clearly than you do, Ron," he finally says, holding Draco's gaze for a moment more, before turning back to Weasley; there's a downward curve to his lips that's still too thoughtful to be a frown. "I'm no wide-eyed optimist. Not anymore. I don't believe in quests for personal redemption, or even atonement. I  _do_  believe in repaying debts that are owed, and Malfoy owes a debt to this society that only the rest of his natural life will even begin to repay."  
  
  
Draco means for that soundless sigh to come out as another snort--a scoff, even. He owes the Wizarding World nothing. It's the Wizarding World that owes him: a family, a fortune, a life,  _itself_.   
  
  
And apparently it will spend the rest of Draco's natural life failing to pay up while demanding more sacrifices of him.  
  
  
Anyways, none of the other idiots in the room--Potter, included--seem to realize that Potter's clearly projecting his many deep-seated issues onto the nearest convenient Malfoy.  
  
  
"What about the threat he poses? Having a murderer living at a school? Giving him a  _wand_ , and letting him teach and guide innocent children--and Slytherins. . . ?" Finnigan asks, and holds up one bruised hand to forestall Potter's protest. "And don't you dare bring Snape into this, that was different, too. Snape actually felt bad for crimes he committed.  _This_  prick is still smirking over his!"  
  
  
Really, Draco's going to have to get back into the habit of controlling his every facial expression. As it is, turning his smirk into an innocuous smile is an uphill climb, and having  _Finnigan_  catch him at it is just mortifying.  
  
  
"The only person Malfoy's a threat to now is Malfoy." Potter--otherwise known as The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Hurl-Unwarranted-Hexes-At-His-Unarmed-Former-Year-Mates--shrugs as if he believes what he just said. Draco can't tell if he's lying or not.  
  
  
Weasley and Finnigan weren't there in that God-forsaken cell while Potter healed first Draco's bruises, then his own, but they obviously don't know whether to believe Potter, either.   
  
  
Their faces, however, say they prefer to err on the side of caution.  
  
  
Not that either of them have ever had a true idea of what Draco is capable of. And that certainly works in Draco's favor, though it would be nice, for once, to be over-estimated. By someone other than Weasley and Finnigan, that is.   
  
  
Someone like Potter, for instance, who Draco's currently imagining trussed up like a sheep and bleating out five years worth of fear and rage and regret on a dirty cell floor to someone  _he_  loathes--  
  
  
\--to Draco, who would laugh and laugh till tears ran down his face. . . .  
  
  
Oh, dear, there goes that unseemly smirk, again.  
  
  
". . . threat to  _you_ , ya ninny!" Yet another useful contribution to the proceedings from Mr. Finnigan.  
  
  
"Oh, that won't happen for years, yet," Potter murmurs, glancing sidelong at Draco again, a crooked twist to his lips that's too grim to be a grin, too knowing to hide the promise in his words. "Mr. Malfoy's still got quite a lot to learn before that day comes."  
  
  
 _And learn Mr. Malfoy will_ , can be read in Potter's iron-bright tone. Certainly after going to all the trouble to goad Draco into performing wandless magic-- _autonomancy_ * is the term Potter uses--he wouldn't just let Draco faff about on his own trying to discover the secret and trick of harnessing it.  
  
  
Slughorn isn't to be his only master, it would appear. And the choice of five years is a timetable not for Draco's tutelage under Slughorn, but his tutelage under  _Potter_.  
  
  
He returns Potter's smile with a promise of his own. Yes . . . five years from now will be a very interesting day, when it comes. And it may come sooner than that, if Potter's once again underestimated his pupil.  
  
  
"Look, what's done is done. I suggest the both of you let it go and move on." Potter spreads his hands peaceably.  
  
  
"And that's the end of it, is it? Damnit, what's with you, lately? You're cold, you're condescending, you're throwing your fame around the Ministry like bread crumbs to a flock of greedy pigeons--and don't think word about  _that_  hasn't gotten around!" Having worked up a righteous head of steam, Weasley ticks off points on long, blunt-ended fingers. "Every Auror we know thinks you're either going barmy, or going bad! You're being crucified in the  _Prophet--_ "   
  
  
Potter chuckles and it seethes underneath three layers of false jocularity. "Thanks to the wagging tongues around Magical Law Enforcement, no doubt." Finnigan blanches at that and Draco wonders if Potter noticed.   
  
  
If he didn't, it isn't Draco's place to tell--were he able to do so. At least it's not his place to tell until it'll it's most advantageous to himself.   
  
  
"Honestly, one would think, in the aftermath of The Backlash, you lot would have better things to do than speculate about The-Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived." Potter's tone is pleasantly unreadable; so much so that even Draco almost instinctively shrinks back in his chair.  
  
  
Finnigan screws his courage to the sticking place and says: "If tongues are wagging, Harry Potter, it's because you've gone too far, this time, can't you see? You're turning into--into--"   
  
  
 _A Slytherin_? Of course Finnigan and Weasley wouldn't have the stones to go  _that_  far. Not when it comes to precious, delicate Potter, who may in fact be brittle, but certainly isn't delicate.  
  
  
"--someone we don't even know," Weasley finishes when Finnigan's splutters go on for a few seconds too long.  
  
  
 _It's both gift and curse_ , Draco thinks,  _this constantly being right._  
  
  
"You don't even come out for a pint, anymore, mate!" Finnigan chimes in as if naming a culprit in a crime. To an alcohol-drenched ne'er-do-well such as Finnigan, Draco concedes, missing an opportunity to imbibe with similar-minded human refuse is surely a symptom of some larger and insidious malady.   
  
  
From the flash of disbelief and contempt in Potter's hooded eyes, he's reached the same conclusion, and for the first time, Draco realizes that Gryffindor loyalties don't run the same as Hufflepuff loyalties. Not all Gryffindors approve of each other or get along.   
  
  
"What has  _a pint_  got to do with the price of Kneazles in Knockturn, Seamus?" Potter's voice is pure exasperation now, with possibly imaginary hints of patronizing laughter around the edges. Even Finnigan doesn't miss this, and mottled red blooms on his pallid cheeks.  
  
  
Despite the fact that Draco finds himself whole-heartedly agreeing with Potter's response, he thinks it's stupid to alienate allies who might someday prove useful.   
  
  
 _Yes, and also on that day, Lucius and Voldemort will have a snowball fight on the ski slopes of Hell_. . . .  
  
  
But Draco's rich fantasy life is nothing, compared to watching Weasel's snub-nosed face turn from mournful to frustrated. It's like watching milk go from sour to curdled.   
  
  
"What has a pint got--Merlin, Harry--" he lookes like he's about to settle in for a--nother--full-scale rant. But Finnigan's hand on his arm stays him, actually calms him. It's impossible to miss the ease and familiarity of the gesture.   
  
  
Nor is it possible to miss the way Potter's mouth tightens. Firms. Becomes as unforgiving as Lucius's ever was. But somehow Weasel and Finnigan  _do_  miss it completely, reaffirming several of Draco's long-held theories about Gryffindor intelligence and instincts.  
  
  
"Are you even listening to what you've been saying?" Weasley's at least modulated his tone, realizing that hysterics and anger will get him nowhere with this new Potter. Unfortunately he's realized it quite a bit too late. "What does Dennis think about this?"   
  
  
Never one to feel uncomfortable watching a discussion that revolves around but doesn't include him, even Draco finds the sudden, pointed silence almost suffocating. He wonders who Dennis is, other than off-limits as a topic of conversation.   
  
  
"I believe we're done here," Potter flatly states, his voice a scalpel that punctures the balloon, but lets out none of the tension. He stands and smooths his robes, his face closing off as ominously as the only door leading out of a crypt. Gives Draco a peremptory nod that can only mean  _come along_.  
  
  
Draco raises an eyebrow, but stands too, sauntering across the room to stand not behind Potter, but at his side.   
  
  
Once again, he's rewarded by the curdled-milk expression on Weasley's face and a bullish glare from Finnigan.  
  
  
Following an instinct for brassing people off that's never failed him once, Draco inclines his body toward Potter's just a little more than chastened obedience would deem necessary.  
  
  
Finnigan isn't quite astute enough for even that sort of obvious insinuation, but Weasley, dear old reliable Weasel . . . the milk goes from curdled to scalded so quickly, Draco's surprised he can't feel the wash of heat.  
  
  
"I'll pass your regards on to Hermione, shall I?" Potter tosses over his shoulder as he shoves past Finnigan to the door, not waiting to see the look of pain and guilt that flashes across Weasley's face.  
  
  
But Draco sees it and files it away for later consideration.   
  
  
With a sardonic bow to the Duo in lieu of a parting riposte, he follows after Potter leaving both Aurors gaping.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
For a relatively short man, Potter has a formidable stride that Draco has to stretch his legs to keep up with. It isn't until they reach level one of the Ministry that Potter slows down with a distracted apology.  
  
  
That rankles somewhat, but Draco has more curious things to occupy his mind. Like the look on Weasel's face at the mention of Mudblood Granger.   
  
  
Last Draco had read--and the news had been a year old when he read it; the picture of the disgustingly happy couple in the yellowing edition of the  _Evening Prophet_  had been barely twitching--the pair had set a wedding date after six years of dithering. It was to be the wedding of the century (till some enterprising young witch landed Mr. Harry James Potter, himself).   
  
  
Rita Skeeter had even coined the horrendous, but fitting moniker "Hermonald" to describe the pair. Her weak-minded readers had eaten up the whole 'crucible of war' having 'tempered boarding school lust into a love for all the ages' pap with a spoon.  
  
  
"What inane drivel," Draco had scoffed at the time, balling up the article and tossing it into the fire even as Rita Skeeter's annoyingly chirpy voice twittered on in truly atrocious yellow journalistic style.  
  
  
Now, Draco finds himself mildly fascinated, if only the by changes time has wrought. Had Weasley dumped Granger to go sniffing after some  _even less_  suitable girl? Or had Granger finally realized that even for a Muggle-born, marrying a Weasley would be marrying down?  
  
  
Still, it's only  _almost_  as interesting as the very un-Gryffindor vindictiveness Potter had just displayed. Though with characteristic Gryffindor squirmishness, he hadn't let himself enjoy the immensely satisfying fallout that comes of verbally cutting down one's nearest and dearest.  
  
  
 _What was that all about?_  Draco wonders, biting his lip to keep from grinning like a Muggle over the mess Potter is making of his life. Truly it has been said: misery doth always love company.  
  
  
Even if that company is Potter.  
  
  
So, leaving aside speculation for the nonce, Draco decides to simply savor that look on poor, dumb Weasel's face for them both.   
  
  
Anyways, it's infinitely better than marching along in sullen muteness until Potter decides to remove the Silencing Charm.

 

 

* _Autonomancy_  lifted from the fabulous Nimori's, [Happy Christmas, Harry Potter!](http://www.etc.slashcity.net/archive/viewstory.php?sid=24&warning=5), which you should totally read.


	3. The First Hours of the Rest of His Life 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the old alma mater . . . a vaguely familiar face and answers to some of his questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU after OotP. Set post-Hogwarts by eight years.

"What--" Draco attempts as they make their way to the Auror checkpoint--bloody grand of Potter to remove the Silencing Charm without telling him—and clears his throat. "What was  _that_  all about?"  
  
  
"What was  _what_  all about?" Potter's grimly soldiering onward--marching as to war.  
  
  
"Weasley's eerily spot-on impersonation of a big girl's blouse, or weren't you paying attention just then?"   
  
  
Coming from someone who manipulates and hurts his friends with enviable ease, the glare Potter shoots him seems a tad hypocritical.   
  
  
" _That_ , was my former colleagues in law enforcement having qualms about a serial murderer walking around in the sunshine. Silly of them, really." Potter's tone is only nominally snide. His heart's not in it at all, and something will certainly have to be done about that.  
  
  
"Well, at least this serial murderer will be walking around in good company, eh?" Draco claps Potter on the back soundly, and he stiffens, his shoulders up and hunched like an alley kneazle. Then he's taking those ground-devouring strides and Draco's hurrying to keep up, fully expecting to be hexed back to muteness at any second.   
  
  
A subtle clearing of the throat is proof that he's hasn't been, but the conversation, such as it is, has fallen flat, anyways. The cosmos have realigned into their proper order.  
  
  
The Aurors standing guard duty finally--after checking and rechecking Potter's papers, but not quite going so far as to pat him down, as they do Draco--allow them access to the floor network.  
  
  
"It's a disgrace, this," the elder mutters as Potter gestures for Draco to proceed him further into the Hall. The younger one--a sharp-featured blonde--doesn't so much as look at Draco after she's done patting him down, only makes a face like she's smelled something dreadful.  
  
  
She reminds him strongly of his mother.  
  
  
Ignoring his own sentimentality, Draco glides past the pair like visiting royalty. He can't make out what Potter murmurs as he passes them, but he hears the clipped, too-calm tone, and the older Auror's stammered response of: 'yes, sir, my apologies, sirs.'  
  
  
Once they reach a fireplace labeled "Hogwarts! Please Enunciate!" Potter stares at cold hearth for a moment, brooding, obviously unhappy, only to shake it off seconds later and reach for the large bowl on the mantle.  
  
  
Now that the silence is slightly less pointed, if only because Potter's too busy fumbling with the floo powder as if he's never used it before--  
  
  
"So!" Draco says brightly, startling Potter and causing him to drop floo powder all over the mantle. "If peons like the Wonder Twins, and those two back there are so righteous, why aren't you siding with them?"   
  
  
"I'm not  _siding_  with anyone. I'm  _doing the right thing_." Potter glares at Draco again, who efficiently scoops the spilled powder into his own hand. The ambient light of the Atrium reflects eerily in his eyes. "You knew what it was to do the right thing once upon a time, Malfoy. For a few minutes, anyway."  
  
  
Draco moves briskly into the fireplace. "Yes, to my eternal lament. Defense Against The Dark Arts office!" He enunciates, dropping the floo powder before Potter can respond. Only then does it occur to him that whoever may be waiting on the other side may have been expecting Potter first, or at least with him.  
  
  
Although who, besides Slughorn and/or McGonagall would be hanging about the DADA office of an evening? More of Potter's obnoxious, imbecilic friends? Doubtful, if what Draco's seen is indicative of the way he habitually treats them.  
  
  
Still, Gryffs are nothing, if not tenacious. For all he knows, Granger will be waiting there to smooth poor Potter's hair, then force more Veritaserum down Draco's throat.  
  
  
 _C'est la vie_ , the Lucius in his head hisses, a trifle smugly. Then Draco's stepping out of the fireplace with his usual grace and alacrity (floo being his only reliable recourse for travel with no decent wand these three years). He dusts off his borrowed--but recently  _Scourgify_ ed, like himself--robes and looks around.  
  
  
No remarkable changes about the office, other than the fanatical neatness with which it is now being kept. Unless Potter's changed in other ways than his somewhat more palatable personality and fashion sense, this office rarely sees him in it, despite the enormous pile of scrolls waiting on his desk.  
  
  
Books that no witch or wizard except Granger has bothered to read since their own schooldays adorn the shelves, dust-free, but obviously unused.   
  
  
A quick scan of the titles shows no copy of  _Quidditch Through The Ages_ , but a pristine copy of  _Hogwarts: A History_  that's obviously never been read.  
  
  
 _Oh, dear, who cold have gifted our semi-literate champion with that?_  Draco smirks, but briefly. His attention is rather quickly taken by the door . . . sweet, tempting door. Not that he has any illusions about his chances of evading Potter, or even Weasley and Finnigan. Not wandless, anyway.  
  
  
But the temptation is there--a tickling curiosity to see not how far he'd get, but just how much more he could fuck up his life before being put out of everyones' misery. . . .   
  
  
He doesn't even realize he's taken a step toward the door, until his musings and his forward momentum are halted by a cleared throat from the fireplace behind him. Instinctively reaching for the wand he hasn't had in years, Draco whirls toward the noise. Is confronted by a vaguely familiar young wizard leaning against the mantle.  
  
  
His well-made umber robe is covered liberally in buff-colored dust, and under it he wears a thin, horrendously orange Muggle shirt that reads  _Billabong_. Adding insult to Mugglery, below the eye-watering shirt are faded denim trousers, worn at the knees, and ancient-looking sandals on dusty feet.  
  
  
Mousy, equally dusty brown hair frames a nothing face--that is saved from complete obscurity only by a pair of sky-blue eyes that seem to glow against his tanned, weather-beaten skin--and hangs to narrow shoulders.  
  
  
There's a wand pointed at Draco, slender as the hand that holds it. Said hand is steady, as is the cold, electric gaze above it that's tried, convicted and executed Draco in the space of split-seconds.  
  
  
"Where is Harry?" The wizard asks in a voice that's unexpectedly low and musical, tense and also vaguely familiar. Of all Draco's failings--and he'll be the first to admit there are many, just different from the ones people such as Weasley would name--memory has never been one, until now.  
  
  
The silence draws out and those sharp, bombardier's eyes snap dangerously.   
  
  
"Let's try this once more." The wand is now leveled at Draco's right eye. "Where. Is Harry?"  
  
  
And still all Draco can do is stare blankly at this rag-tag wizard. Stare and catalogue several sudden physical symptoms: the uncontrolled, violent flush spreading across every square inch of skin on his body; the unparalleled and surprising uselessness of brain and tongue in response to this unexpected threat; the accelerated rush of blood in his veins running hotter then colder, then hotter again. . . .  
  
  
The bottom having completely fallen out of his stomach, only to be replaced by smoldering coals.   
  
  
Well, that last could easily be attributed to the half-stale bread Potter bespoke from Azkaban's stores, which has done nothing but sit in his gut like a slug of lead.  
  
  
It's a plausible enough explanation until those blue eyes narrow, taking the mouth--infernally mobile-looking, despite the hard line it's set in--with it. That smoldering warmth starts to pool and tingle in Draco's stomach before spreading outwards (downwards) at an alarming rate.  
  
  
Thank all the Malfoys that ever were for the automatic sneer that curls his lips--if not for the horribly clichéd insult that tumbles out of them far too breathlessly. "Aren't you Muggle-born ever taught that you'll catch more flies with--"  
  
  
"Damnitall!" Comes from the fireplace as Potter tumbles through to land on his stomach, gone sprawling like an oafish, overgrown toddler covered in soot. Draco doesn't bother to stifle a derisive chuckle, nodding at the stranger.  
  
  
"Does that answer your question?" He lets the chuckle taper into a smirk, inwardly sighing when those eyes remain unwarmed by humor, interest or even disapproval. It occurs to him this stranger must be magnificent in true anger . . . cold and tightly-controlled, the only sign of his rage the flash of those damning blue eyes and the thinning of that mouth--   
  
  
It's here that Draco pauses a moment to take stock of himself, review the 'symptoms' and add them up. The conclusion he comes to is worse than mental strain and indigestion combined. Worse by far, as he continues to gaze at this unkempt stranger like some lovestruck Hufflepuff.   
  
  
Something bitter and slow, like rue, begins to twist at his core, creating a desperate urge to strike this man, bloody that mouth and gouge out those eyes--   
  
  
He needs a distraction, he decides, and anything'll do.  
  
  
 _Anything_  has, in fact, just tumbled tail-over-tea-kettle through the fireplace.  
  
  
"I've always remarked upon your talent for making a dignified entrance, Potter," he notes, leaning against the bookshelves and crossing his arms. Potter picks himself up efficiently, unabashedly, and dusts off the same way, automatically heading toward his pin-neat desk. He's barely touched the first scroll on the top and half of them tumble to the floor unnoticed.  
  
  
"Sod off, Malfoy, it's not as if--Dennis!" Potter turns when some sixth sense alerts him to the other man's presence. The look of distracted annoyance evaporates, is replaced by something that's equal parts smile and frown and the scroll he'd picked up drops to the desk. Then the floor to join it's brethren.   
  
  
"Dennis," he says again, genuine--as far as Draco can tell--pleasure in his voice and leeching into his expression. The wizard's--Dennis's stance doesn't change, or the hard look on his face, but something in the line of him, the stiff breadth of his shoulders, such as it is, relaxes.   
  
  
He straightens slightly, squaring his spare frame. "Hullo, Harry." Extra bit of basso in his voice, turning it into a mellow rumble that, combined with that steady stare, makes a hot flush creep across Draco's skin.  
  
  
Who  _is_  this person that makes Potter's presence in the same room  _Draco_  is in entirely trivial? Who could possibly push such a massively annoying man to the side in Draco's mind?  
  
  
But memory has finally placed this vagabond wizard: forgettable face, obviously Muggle-born, an air of stillness and focus that'd once been somewhat curious in so young a child--   
  
  
Dennis Creevey might've done well in Slytherin, if the mile-wide streak of Gryffindor boldness and plain-spokenness could've been tormented out of him. If he weren't so protective of that annoying older brother of his. . . .   
  
  
If he weren't a Muggle-bo--a  _Mudblood_ , he might very well have gone far in the Wizarding World, indeed.  
  
  
Though Draco certainly is in no position to pass judgment. The House of Malfoy no longer carries the cachet of nobility it once did, thanks to himself and Lucius. Any wizard, even the most persnickety of Purebloods, would sooner cite this Creevey boy as a more favorable match than Draco.   
  
  
An enraged Hippogriff would rate as a more favorable match than Draco.  
  
  
"You're back early, aren't you?" Potter is asking, concern coloring his eyes and voice. He takes a step toward the Creevey boy--Creevey  _man_ , despite his rather economical build—then hesitates. It's the first sign of uncertainty he's displayed since he brazened Draco out of Azkaban. "Did something go wrong in Corfu?"  
  
  
Creevey shakes his head once, his suspicious attention partially shifting, at last, to Potter. His eyes and face soften, and a small smile touches the corners of his mouth briefly. It doesn't transform his face, but it adds a glow to those blue, blue eyes that makes the churning burn in Draco's stomach grow more intense.  
  
  
Creevey still does not lower his wand.  
  
  
Parts quite a bit south of Draco's abdomen begin to stir.   
  
  
"After the initial audit, they really didn't need me hanging about, burning through the freelance budget. Bill had me touch down in Burnie for a bit--"  
  
  
"God, not the zombies, again?" Potter shudders.  
  
  
"No, thank goodness. No major uprisings since December.  _Rawhiri, Totorewa, & Alpert_ is still holding down the fort until the counter-curse can be cast. Another couple of weeks and I'll be heading back with Bill's team to pitch in. But till they need me I'm . . . somewhat at loose ends." This last is said in a soft, hopeful, but not quite prodding tone.   
  
  
"Oh," Potter says, smiling his relief that all's right with the world. At least the Tasmanian part of it. "Well . . . whatever the reason for you being back so soon, I'm glad to see you, as always." Cue a repellently Dumbledorish twinkle that steps neatly over the question in Creevey's tone. "Especially as it gives me another chance to talk you into guest lecturing my fifth years."  
  
  
Though the hopeful light in his eyes is shuttered, Creevey doesn't seem too put out by Potter's surely deliberate obtuseness. But there's more than a little self-mockery in his smile, now. "Not this again, Harry--even Arithmancy-geeks like me find it makes for dry lecturing. And a practical application wouldn't be appropriate even for the DADA classroom--"  
  
  
"Dennis--I'm not asking you to lecture them about Arithmancy! The poor kids get enough of that from Vector." Potter sits and starts poking at the pile of scrolls on his desk again, causing more of them to tumble to the floor. "I'm asking you to come in, talk a little bit about what you do, how you use what you learned in DADA to keep yourself safe, take some questions--"  
  
  
"And I suppose offer summer apprenticeships to those who show some interest in curse-breaking as a career?" Creevey chuckles when Potter begins to hem and haw, and splutter. "Blimey, Harry, your fifth years aren't the reason I come back to Hogwarts every free moment I get, and you know it."  
  
  
The silence is expectant and full, but not uncomfortable. Potter seems to be fighting back a smile as he shuffles parchment.   
  
  
"Mum says she's forgetting what I look like," Creevey goes on, stepping away from the mantle and lowering his wand arm. He still doesn't put his wand away. "And she's even threatening to move to Hogwarts since that's the only way she'll get to see me regularly."  
  
  
Potter watches Creevey's approach from under his lashes. "What about your dad?"  
  
  
"Well . . . he'll just be glad of the peace and quiet, won't he?" That earns Creevey a small chuckle, though there are whole other levels of conversation in their eyes, their words--in their silences that Draco can't interpret, only scratch the surfacce of their meaning.   
  
  
He rolls his eyes and slouches, ignoring the quiet voice urging him to stand up straight like a proper gentleman, shoulders back, and for Merlin's sake, don't  _glower_  so. . . !  
  
  
(It sounds more like his mother than his father, that voice.)  
  
  
"I really  _am_  glad you're back," Potter blurts out, before sighing. "I mean--I missed you."   
  
  
Such an abysmally plain little declaration, said with no aplomb whatsoever, but it puts that hopeful light back in Creevey's eyes and a new knot in Draco's stomach.  
  
  
"Look, I promised Vector I'd stop by for a visit, but I won't be long. I can drop by your rooms a little later, and--" Creevey darts a glance at Draco, who smirks in return, though the burning in his stomach has changed focus entirely, is now quite unpleasant. He thinks it might be envy, though it's been so long since he's felt that particular burn, even where Potter's concerned. "Around half-nine, say? And by then you'll have gotten . . .  _things_  sorted?"  
  
  
Potter finally nods, that small smile back, a little color in his cheeks. "Half-nine, if you wish. That chess game we started is still waiting. I expect you'll trounce me, like always."  
  
  
 _Oh, whom do you think you're fooling?_  Draco wants to demand--sick of watching  _yet again_  as Potter gets  _everything_  with no more expenditure than a soulful look and a wistful smile--when Creevey sits on the edge of Potter's desk. His hand covers Potter's, stilling it.  
  
  
"I remember exactly where we left off, too," he murmurs softly, though not softly enough for Draco, who's had more than enough.   
  
  
 _Do you know your boyfriend can cast Legilimens any time he wants, without wand or words, Creevey? Do you know he's probably taken up residence in your deepest thoughts, and knows more about how you feel than you do? Not that he'd_ have _to use Legilimency with your feelings made so blatantly apparent._  Draco's stomach is turning into pâté de foie gras, and he has to look away from this--this. If only to calm the sudden pounding in head and chest.  _If Potter chose to, he could force you to feel whatever he wished you to feel, including every yearning, insipid, hormonal emotion you're no doubt experiencing right now._  
  
  
When he looks up again, Potter's staring up into Creevey's eyes intently--too intently, as far as Draco would be concerned if he cared. Which he doesn't. Still, he clears his throat before Creevey can do more than ghost rough fingers across Potter's cheek. "Will I be meeting with Professor Slughorn sometime before the Leaving Feast? Or am I to be subjected to even more hackneyed attempts at seduction?"  
  
  
Two sets of eyes, shift to Draco and--having secured their attention--he straightens up as if to leave, fully aware that he has no place to go without Potter's input or permission.   
  
  
"Oh, shut it and have a seat, Malfoy," Potter says with more amusement than rancor. "You don't have to worry about going anywhere or doing anything for at least another twelve hours. That includes meeting with Slughorn."  
  
  
"Fine. And I  _never_  worry," Draco says, and Potter rolls his eyes. Creevey has stood up and gone back to the mantle, retrieving some sort of dusty, sooty canvas carry-all. He hefts it onto his shoulder and turns back to Potter, that glow back in his eyes and face even stronger than before.   
  
  
"I'll see you tonight, Harry," he says softly. He nods politely--if nigh imperceptibly--to Draco on his way out the door. "Good evening, Mr. Malfoy.”  
  
  
In the moments Draco takes to conjure up a suitably scathing and dismissive reply, the door's already swung shut leaving him and Potter alone but for the faint, lingering scent of sand and salt, water and stone.   
  
  
It's strangely . . . appealing.  
  
  
Draco watches Potter continue to push scrolls aimlessly--distractedly, and with a ridiculous little grin on his face--about his desk for a minute before taking the seat opposite him. "The Creevey boys never were much to look at, but the other one, at least, had a certain puppy-ish, sycophantic charm. . . ."   
  
  
 _This one has practically nothing to recommend him,_  Draco means to add, but closes his mouth on it. If one can't tell a lie convincingly and well, one shouldn't tell it at all. Rare, but sound advice from his late mother that he's always taken to heart.  
  
  
And Draco's rather leery of upsetting Potter  _too_  much.  
  
  
But far from flustered or angry, Potter merely 'hmms', making it obvious he hadn't really heard a word Draco said. Whatever equilibrium seeing Weasley and Finnigan had upset, Creevey has somehow put right with little more than a smile and a caress.  
  
  
  
"So what does Weasel think of his competition? Can't imagine he's too happy about this--or does he even know that you're a shirt lifter?"  
  
  
(Though not quite as clueless as Finnigan, it still wouldn't surprise Draco a bit if Weasley had no idea which team his supposed best friend was Seeker for. By the same token, neither would it surprise him if Weasley were queer and had been equally clueless about it until Potter, ahem, brought it to his attention.   
  
  
It would certainly explain the 'Hermonald' split.)  
  
  
Potter finally looks up, blinking quizzically. "Ron is both aware of and not even remotely invested in my sexual preferences, not that that's any of your business. But as our lives are going to be bound together for some time, and you're probably one of the few people in the Wizarding World who didn't know about me--"  
  
  
"I've always known!" Potter's utter disbelief causes Draco to cross his arms again. "Suspected, anyway. How else to explain the sought after Harry Potter escaping Hogwarts with his virginity intact--and don't bother to deny it, either. Half the girls in our year were in love you--the ones that didn't have the good taste to be desperately in love with  _me_ , anyway—so unless you were ashamed of some . . . shortcoming or other. . . ."  
  
  
A quirky, light-hearted smile that should seem out of place on this new, even more humorless Potter . . . but doesn't. "Oh, I've never had any complaints."   
  
  
"You wouldn't, would you?" Draco sneers. "Who's going to tell The Boy Who Lived that's he's a complete wash between the sheets?"  
  
  
"Malfoy,  _do_  find something else to twit me about, or I'll start to think you fancy me."  
  
  
 _Not even under Imperius._  Draco thinks, then realizes that if Potter chose to, he  _could_  impel Draco to do any number of unsavory things, the least of which might be climbing into Potter's bed and liking it. "Tempting, though you are, I must demure. Far be it from me to come between the inestimable Mr. and Mrs. Dennis Creevey."  
  
  
Potter laughs—of all things—even snorting a little. "Nice shot."  
  
  
"I rather thought so," Draco admits with overdone modesty. Then: "I find your relaxed attitude to my drubbing contemptible, not to mention personally insulting."  
  
  
"Best learn to live with it, hadn't you?"  
  
  
"If only to avoid the alternative." Draco catches himself about to slouch again like some work-weary Muggle laborer, and sits up ramrod straight before letting his body recline gracefully.  
  
  
And Potter's  _still_  pawing through the pile of scrolls like a crazed dog.   
  
  
"Oh, what  _are_  you rummaging for, you disorganized savage?" Draco finally asks, allowing mild interest to color his irritation.  
  
  
"Your contract. Could've sworn I left it on top of the pile--"  
  
  
"--the top half which you knocked to the floor?" Draco inquires, and a lumos finally comes on above Potter's head. Then he's disappearing below desk-top to root about on the floor like a pig for truffles. Draco sighs. "I, for one, am comforted that my life has been placed in your capable hands."  
  
  
"All I did was pull your arse out of the frying pan. It's up to you to keep it out of the fire. Your life is in your own hands now, Draco." Potter drops an armful of parchment on the desk and glares at it as if trying to make it catch fire. Which isn't beyond the realm of possibility where this particular wizard is involved.   
  
  
"So, what are the terms of my indentured servitude to be, then?"  
  
  
"It's a pretty standard apprenticeship contract; with a few added provisos due to your . . . circumstances. You can review the contract yourself tonight--if I ever find the damn thing—and address any issues you may have with your goblin--"  
  
  
“Wait--” Draco blinks. "I have a goblin?"  
  
  
"Of course you have. I hired you one, didn't I? Dravdok, the Punctillious." Potter shakes his head. Draco, meanwhile, is still fighting off a more than mild case of shock.  
  
  
"You. Hired me a goblin."  
  
  
"It's not as if you can just go about signing random bits of legalese without protecting your interests. Well--you can, but you really shouldn't," Potter admonishes as if Draco doesn't already known this. He knows, he's simply surprised Potter also knows and agrees.   
  
  
Times have changed when this most Gryffindor of Gryffindors starts spouting platitudes like a portrait of a Malfoy great-uncle.   
  
  
"Dravdok expects you and Slughorn in his office by eight sharp. He'll go over the terms with you separately and together, and I'll pop in to a be a witness to the signing. Unless there's someone else you'd rather. . . ?"  
  
  
Draco waves a hand dismissively. "You'll do." There's no one he'd rather--no one else period. Certainly no one alive that he can trust more than he trusts Potter.   
  
  
Not that he'd ever, even in his most innocent days, resorted to something as trivial as trust when leverage was so much more practical.  
  
  
"And my other master?" Draco drawls the word just to see the thinning of Potter's already thin lips. "What of him? Will he be bound by this contract, or am I to be dependent solely on his good will for peace of mind and protection?"  
  
  
Potter doesn't answer him for several minutes, and then only to say, "here" a second before he tosses the scroll. Draco catches it but doesn't unroll it, holding Potter's gaze expectantly.  
  
  
"Right, then. I'm willing go you one better, Draco. An oath—blood oath, if you like." He leans down to open the right bottom drawer of his desk, and quickly comes up with a bottle of Ogden's Old, followed a second later by two large, plain glasses. "Will you feel your interests adequately protected with me under a geas?"  
  
  
Despite his returning control of his facial expressions, Draco cannot stop the fractional rise of one eyebrow. However, Potter suggesting a heathen-style blood-binding--while obviously settling them both in for a bit of a drunk--makes that eyebrow forgivable, in his opinion.   
  
  
"That would depend upon the geas, would it not? And I don't imbibe," he says primly. But Potter's already shoving a glass across the desk—heedless of his students' no doubt lackluster papers. Perhaps the Ogden's Old is useful as a grading aid. "But let us say you take this oath . . . what would I have to swear in return?"  
  
  
"Not a thing." Potter shrugs at Draco's unvoiced, unexpressed skepticism, deftly uncorking the bottle and pouring a fifth into Draco's glass one handed, with the ease of long practice. "You have nothing I need or want, and the one great secret I have, you already know. And it comes complete with a Ministry sanctioned Secret-keeper."  
  
  
And Draco can guess who the Secret-keeper is.  
  
  
"You don't have to make up your mind about everything right now," Potter adds, mistaking Draco's silence, but not completely. He takes a deep swallow of his firewhisky and nods at Draco to do the same.   
  
  
Sighing, Draco ventures a sip. Then another that burns even more than the first.   
  
  
"I'm offering to become your mentor in autonomancy, but that is  _not_  a condition of your release." Potter leans back in his chair and swings his feet up onto his desk, somehow missing the scattered scrolls. His eyes are pensive, watchful. "It's also not an easy road. You may think you despise me now, but if you decide to learn what I have to teach, you will plumb new, burning depths of hatred just to get through our sessions."  
  
  
A sneer seems appropriate now, but Draco can't remember where he placed his. Maybe Creevey took it with him when he left.   
  
  
He unconsciously takes another sip, letting the heat of it warm him, make Potter's words a bit more palatable.  
  
  
"Of course . . . you're free to tell me to take my tutelage and sod off right now. I'll hold you no ill will--and you'll certainly see less of me during the course of your probation." A tired smile, and self-deprecating toast. "But once you're my apprentice--once I've taken whatever oaths you deem necessary to give you your peace of mind, there's no going back."  
  
  
Potter's gaze burns as much, if not more than the firewhisky, and Draco looks away, fingers clenching on his glass. He knows little enough about heathen magic, and even less about blood oaths. Malfoys rarely made promises they intended to keep, and so never resorted to any ritual oath-taking aside from marriage.  
  
  
But more than the dubious safety of binding Potter in some heathen oath, Draco wants wandless magic. Wants to be the source of his power  _and_  the focus of it. He's never wanted anything so much in his life.  
  
  
He knocks back the rest of his fifth in one fiery swallow, meeting Potter's glaze without blinking, despite the tears that springs to his eyes. When he doesn't blink them away, they run down his face freely.  
  
  
Potter smiles grim approval and pours Draco another, toasting him again.  
  
  
"Nothing too elaborate for the geas though, Malfoy. I don't fancy having to stagger into Pomfrey's office short a pint of blood and having to explain why I'm covered in runes and sigils," he mutters, tossing back his own shot before pouring himself a double. It's telling that he doesn't so much as grimace at the burn, when there are still tears springing to Draco's eyes.  
  
  
"Why?" He asks after collecting his thoughts for a moment, sipping steadily, letting the second glass stoke the burn ignited by the first. "Why me? Why not Weasel, or Granger, or even bloody Longbottom?"  _Why not lover-boy Creevey?_  
  
  
"The idea of performing magic without a wand is simply inconceivable to most wizards. Especially Purebloods. Besides which, Ron tends to need the focus of a wand, and Neville. Well." Potter sighs, and puts his glass down on an essay. "I find it impossible to be critical of him, so whatever his capacity to learn, I would be utterly pants at teaching him. Hermione . . . chose not continue her Autonomancy studies some time ago."  
  
  
 _'Chose not to continue. . . .'_  Draco files yet another interesting tidbit away for later consideration, leaning back in his chair. He feels flushed and slightly too warm--sleepy, though he's been too wound up to sleep for days.  
  
  
"As to why  _you_  . . . Autonomic Magic is based upon will. The will to effect change, the strength to bear the responsibility and the burden of every change you make--all of which you have in spades.” Potter shrugs.  
  
  
His words ring true enough, but Draco's certain he's not hearing the whole answer. Of course he's not Potter learned to dissemble and obfuscate from the best, after all.   
  
  
“You'll find that most, if not all the spells you can perform with a wand can be performed autonomically." That half-lidded thoughtfulness is back, and Draco manages not to squirm under Potter's bold, unapologetic perusal. "Initially, I'll train you to tap into the very emotions that you insist on letting weaken and control you. Show you how to use them to reshape the the world--small pieces of it, anyway. When you've gained control and focus, you'll be ready to learn true autonomancy: magic powered by your will alone."  
  
  
Draco laughs, a little too loud and too long--or so it seems. He looks at his now empty glass, distracted into wondering how in the Harrowing Heath  _that_ 'd happened so fast.   
  
  
Luckily, his mouth seems able to work without his input and Potter seems inclined to pour without prompting. "Have you forgotten, Potty, that I'm not a Gryffin-bore? Can you really trust that I'll use this newfound power for the good of unicorns, puppies and Mudbloods? Who's to say I won't go around killing and maiming who and whatever crosses my path for fun."  
  
  
Now  _Potter_ 's the one who laughs, jaded and almost apologetic. It sounds off . . . like something one might hear drifting out from the more heavily warded areas of St. Mungo's. And his face looks as if it's in the middle of some sort of transformation.  
  
  
 _Were-Potter?_  Draco thinks, with an uncomfortable giggle that mayn't be entirely mental.  
  
  
"You may use the power however you choose, Malfoy," Potter says, his lips pursing to hold in more of that eerie laughter. "If you've the will to do so, and the strength to bear up under the consequences, then suit yourself and paint the world in blood.  _Fay çe que vouldras--do what thou wilt_  shall be the whole of the law."  
  
  
“Poppycock.” Coming from Potter, this credo is appalling and quite repellent. It's water running up hill: conceivable, but  _wrong_ , and unnatural. Disturbing. But Draco again finds himself believing, even though Potter is surely leaving some crucial bit of information out.  
  
  
 _Granger chose_ not _to continue training with this drunken lunatic. Mudblood or not, she was never stupid. . . ._  
  
  
This voice sounds neither like his mother nor father, but like himself, which makes it an easier voice to ignore, in some ways.  
  
  
Draco knocks back the fifth Potter just poured for him, frowning when another isn't immediately forthcoming. But before he can dredge up something sensibly snarky Potter's put the bottle away, finished off his own glass, and magicked it and Draco's to . . . the kitchens, one imagines.  
  
  
An almost companionable silence reigns over them both until:  
  
  
"Since Creevey's obviously the one wearing the robes in this relationship, that would make  _you_  the pillow-biter, wouldn't it?"  
  
  



	4. The First Hours of the Rest of His Life 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evils of Ogden's Old, uncomfortable levels of honesty and an aching brain-ful of what-ifs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU after OotP. Set post-Hogwarts by eight years.

"You know what I like about you, Potty?"  
  
  
The world had started revolving. Every few steps Draco had listed too far in one direction or another and Potter had finally sighed, hauling Draco's arm around his neck and putting an arm about his waist, muttering about certain people not being able to hold their firewhisky.   
  
  
That'd been at least thirty-five corridors and one hundred staircases ago, and Draco's lost track. He's almost forgotten the question he asked by the time Potter answers it.  
  
  
"Something  _you_  like about  _me_? Erm . . . absolutely nothing?"  
  
  
"What? Oh, yes. But besides that." Draco gestures expansively, nearly wedging his thumb up Potter's nose. He half expects to be let go of, but Potter merely evades the thumb and sighs again.  
  
  
" _Besides_  that? Oh, I can't imagine--but I'm all aflutter."   
  
  
Draco halts their complicated stagger to glare balefully, blearily at Potter and his four twin brothers . . . who slowly resolve into one smirking Halfblood. "Are you having fun with me, Potter?"  
  
  
Potter laughs, mirth and the flicker of torchlight lightening the normally stone-green of his eyes to something rather lucent. "Quite a bit, yes. But do go on. I'm dying to hear what Draco Malfoy could possibly find likable about me."  
  
  
"Your firewhisky!" Draco announces, then giggles so hard the stone floor starts to tilt upwards. But Potter hauls him upright easily and continues to steer them down the suspiciously empty halls of Hogwarts.  
  
  
"Bloody hell, I've created a monster," he observes when Draco starts to reach towards a particularly bright torch. He pulls Draco firmly away before he can do more than singe his fingernails.   
  
  
"I was already a monster well before you happened along. Or had you missed that part of Weasel's tirade?" Draco can make out the occasional painting denizen sleeping, or watching them go by with looks ranging from disapproving to somewhat lascivious.  
  
  
"Oh, I heard him. Ron's especially hard to ignore, these days," Potter says ruefully. "That doesn't make him  _right_ , though he seems to think it does."  
  
  
"Weasel's stupid. And poor."   
  
  
"Not so poor anymore." Then, when Draco falls all over them both laughing: "Look at you, you're really sloshed!"  
  
  
"And whose fault is that, Saint Potty--Saints Potty?" Because Merlin, there's five of him again.   
  
  
"The fault would be yours, I'd say."   
  
  
"Mine! You were the one who kept pouring!" Draco accuses as they stop in front of a blank section of wall. He half-heartedly resists when the Potters leans him against it.  
  
  
"And you were the one who kept drinking." All five Potters seem completely unperturbed. As well they should, sots that they are. Their cheeks aren't even flushed from the firewhisky, while Draco is quite certain his own face has turned a mottled, unpleasant pink all over.   
  
  
"The fault lays with he who is weak enough to take the blame."  
  
  
"Weak enough to  _place the blame_. I can see now why you don't drink."   
  
  
"My complexion isn't mottled!"   
  
  
The Potters give him a strange look. "I'm not implying that it is, just that you're . . . rather unguarded. And randomly defensive--your complexion is fine, by the way, if a little pink."  
  
  
Draco crosses his arms defensively, but not randomly. "I'm not unguarded. Nor am I drunk."  
  
  
"Didn't say you were." Despite the fact that he had just used the term "sloshed" a few moments ago. And there's a tone in his voice that says he still thinks that's true.   
  
  
"Bloody Potter," Draco grumbles. He doesn't even realizes he's sliding down the wall till Potter--all five of them--are looming over him, hauling him back up easily.  
  
  
"I must be a glutton for punishment, because so help me, I haven't once had the urge to tip you back down a flight of stairs since we floo'ed here," they say wryly, wistfully, wonderingly . . . and some other words that probably begin with a 'W'.   
  
  
"Save the flattery, Potter. I'm  _not_  a shirt lifter, so don't go getting any ideas," Draco warns, trying to glare at one of the Potters keeping him from falling flat on his face.   
  
  
All five of them snort and cough. It sounds like they might be holding in laughter.   
  
  
"Damn the luck! You've foiled my plans to get you staggering-drunk then have my wicked way with you in the back-corridors of Hogwarts, where any of my students--not to mention gaggles of gossipy paintings could see us."  
  
  
"Sarcasm doesn't become you at all," Draco sniffs, then Potter  _is_  actually laughing, loud and ringingly. "Where are you dragging me to, anyways? I want to lay down."  
  
  
"Good thing we're already here then."  
  
  
Draco gazes around the dead-end corridor; there aren't even any paintings to glare at them or whisper suggestively. Though there is a half-familiar tapestry behind Potter, of what looks to be a troll in a white tutu, pirouetting while some wide-eyed madman cheers it on. "Here, where? What God-forsaken stretch of hall is this and why are we here?"  
  
  
"We're here because this is where the Room of Requirement is.  _You_  require a place to rest your head, Malfoy, and unfortunately I can't get you into the Dungeon and your rooms. Well, I could, but it would be rude to destroy Slughorn's wards without so much as a by-your-leave." Potter shrugs, that silly grin crookedly curving the ungenerous line of his mouth. For a moment, he looks no older than one of his students. "And you're certainly not bunking with me, tonight."  
  
  
Ah, yes. Creevey. And doesn't thinking about that worthy in such a compromised state make parts of Draco sit up and take notice. "Halfblood poofter."  
  
  
"Inbred lush. The Room'll have everything you need, and I'll be along in the morning with breakfast . . . and a hangover potion. Merlin knows you'll need it, judging by the state of you now--"   
  
  
"You practically up-ended the bottle over my mouth--"  
  
  
"I thought a few drinks would relax you, not--" Potters waves a hand at Draco as if unable to sum him up, and starts pacing back and forth. "Anyways, potion, breakfast, Dravdok's--Ollivanders's for your new wand, and we'd best find you a familiar of some sort while we're in the Alley. Madam Malkin's for your robes, Flourish And Botts for your books--"  
  
  
"Oh, for-- _thank you_ , Potter," Draco says waspishly, if only to halt the listing of activities that couldn't possibly be done in one spending spree, no matter how charitable.   
  
  
(Though he doesn't want to be grateful to Potter, of all people, the plain truth is Potter doesn't have to get him anything. That would normally fall under Slughorn's purview, if he were feeling generous. And the man would be totally within a master's rights to withhold the traditional apprentice's stipend until Draco had repaid him.)  
  
  
Potter waves his hand again. "Thank me when you're a sodden mess of nerves in my office because I won't let you sleep till you've moved a teacup five inches across my desk with nothing more than your will. And, until we get your new clothes, I can transfigure the ones you're wearing into something a bit more . . . respectable--"  
  
  
"Why d'you smell of broom polish? Do you still play Quidditch?"   
  
  
Potter blinks and stops speaking; it takes him several seconds to switch gears. "Erm, yeah. Every chance I get. Why?"  
  
  
Draco tilts his head curiously; at least that's how he chooses to categorize the lolling of the damn thing. "Just wondering. Why didn't you turn pro?"  
  
  
"Are you serious?" Potter's looking at Draco as if he's gone beyond drunk to permanently  _Confundo_ 'd. "Quidditch has always been one of the few uncomplicated joys in my life. Unfortunately, after the War, there was more need for Aurors than Seekers, no matter how good they were. Multiply that lack of need by  _The Boy Who Bloody Triumphed_ , and--"  
  
  
"You've discharged your duty to the Wizarding World ten times over, I should think." Draco says dismissively. He finds Potter to be ultimately self-defeating, even for a Gryffindor, and it's frustrating to no end. "Like you said, you  _are_  The Boy Who Triumphed. You already do whatever the hell you want to do, damn the rest of the world, as evidenced by today."  
  
  
Potter's shaking his head. "I have a responsibility--"   
  
  
"The War's been over for nearly a decade, Potter."  
  
  
"Yes, it has, Malfoy."  
  
  
And even in his inebriated state, Draco can hear the unspoken  _isn't this the cauldron calling the kettle black?_  He tilts his head back haughtily, so as to look down his nose at Potter. At least that's how he categorizes his head lolling back against the cool stone wall. "You just can't stop saving the world from itself, can you?"  
  
  
"Prat. No need to be snide."  
  
  
"I'm not. Okay, not completely. You saved the world, which I happen to be fond of--the Wizarding part of it, anyways. There may be a few more Mudbloods and Halfbloods than I'd like, but without them, who would I be superior to?--you got me a goblin. Probably not a very good one--no doubt with an office just off Knockturn Alley. But it's better than no goblin 't'all. You're gave me the Room of Requirement--"  
  
  
Potter clears his throat. "Consider it a loan, actually--"  
  
  
"--you're buying me decent robes--or at least they'll be decent if you don't get a hand in choosing them. Why, you're the best house-elf I've had since Dobby, and--” Draco's giggles make it all but impossible to finish his sentence. Especially with that snooty, annoyed look on Potter's face.  
  
  
"You know, Malfoy, it's effusive thanks of this sort that makes saving your skinny arse from certain doom so very worth it."  
  
  
"--and you're not nearly as hideous or stupid!" Draco finishes sweetly, because never let it be said that he doesn't give credit where credit is due. If he can admit Weasley is, every once in a great while, right about something, he can admit Potter has a few less-than-awful points.  
  
  
Potter starts pacing again. "Keep up this line of flattery and you'll talk your way into my robes, yet."   
  
  
"'M not  _that_  drunk."  _At least I hope I'm not._. "You  _would_  twist a polite statement of gratitude completely out of context. An unfortunate sign of your Muggle upbringing."   
  
  
Potter's eyes narrow, but it's more reflex, than anything. "You're quite welcome, Malfoy. Now be quiet a moment." He's frowning distractedly at the wall. At Draco, who fidgets.  
  
  
" _You_  be qui--" he starts to say, but Potter has paused his pacing again and somehow gotten much closer--is pushing Draco against the wall and leaning in very, very close. Till their noses are practically touching and his warm, whisky-scented breath puffs on Draco's lips.   
  
  
"Potter--what in  _hell_  do you think you're doing?" He means to demand, but it comes out as more of a frightened whisper. Potter's eyes--no flecks of blue or grey or any other color, just pure, unadulterated green--flick down to Draco's lips, then back up.  
  
  
Draco presses himself against the stone as if to sink into it. But those eyes follow, and Potter's hands plant themselves on the wall to either side of Draco's face.   
  
  
"I need--" he begins softly "--a place for Malfoy to sleep off the most obnoxious drunk I've ever borne witness to." He steps back with a smirk and Draco's rubbery, useless legs only barely keep him from sliding down the wall.   
  
  
"You--you--" he stammers in outrage, despite the fact that had it been  _Creevey_  leaning so close, smelling of far-off places, those bombardier-blue eyes inches away. . . .  
  
  
And for the almost minute that Draco's been distracted by the memory of Creevey's eyes, Potter's been standing there smirking and obviously drawing the wrong conclusions about  _why_  Draco's so flustered. "Don't flatter  _your_ self, you limp-wristed deviant! You--you've  _accosted_  me!"  
  
  
Potter rolls his eyes. "Really, Malfoy, if I'd accosted you, you'd be quite a bit sorer and a lot less wound-up than you are right now!"  
  
  
"You're a pervert! An  _illiterate_  and a pervert!"  
  
  
And who knew that bland, wholesome face could produce such a wicked smirk? "Am I? Well, hadn't you better watch your arse, then?"   
  
  
And in that moment, with suspiciously good timing--especially for a building--Hogwarts opens the Room of Requirement. Which happens to be behind the wall Draco's been leaning against, sending him toppling backwards with no time to even pinwheel his arms.   
  
  
He hits the floor, banging his head, his elbows and his arse, his vision temporarily co-opted by an explosion of stars and fireworks.  
  
  
For several moments, he can only lay there, eyes closed. As the sharp pains dull to something that's mostly manageable, if extremely unpleasant, he senses Potter hovering over him.   
  
  
Draco feebly, instinctively slaps away one big, scarred hand and opens his eyes to see Potter is indeed crouched down, watching him like he's a one-act play. "You're a right bastard, you know."  
  
  
A flash of those even white teeth. "Of course I know. I've been hearing that at least once a day for awhile, now.”   
  
  
"How proud you must feel." Potter watches, but doesn't extend his hand again as Draco laboriously levers himself up. He's forced to use Potter's shoulder and head for balance once he's upright, and geeing and hawing like a crazed mule.   
  
  
"You've got a lumpy skull."  
  
  
"Better than a pointy one." Potter ducks Draco's hand (losing dozens of hairs in the process) and stands up, taking his arm and guiding him to the comfortable looking canopy bed in the center of the blessedly dim room.  
  
  
Draco can make out a bath tub in one far corner and along that same wall, a fireplace crackling happily away. There's a table and two chairs not far from the bed and richly-colored tapestries covering the walls.  
  
  
And a window that looks out on The Lake, though that's hardly possible. . . .   
  
  
"Let's get you put away for the night." Potter's voice is almost maternal in its solicitousness. "Do you need help with your robe and shoes? Feel free to say 'yes'--you have my solemn word that I won't molest you."   
  
  
"Oh, shut up." Draco shoves Potter away from him, struggling out of his own robes and kicking off his own shoes, thank you very much. The second shoe is a bit reluctant to go flying off his foot, but when it does, it sails through the spot where Potter's head had been mere moments before.  
  
  
Disappointed that drink apparently doesn't do much to dull those war-honed reflexes, he pouts, only realizing he's falling backwards when Potter barks out: " _Mobilicorpus_!"   
  
  
From his position of hovering three feet off the ground and drifting steadily bedwards, Draco grimaces up at the distant ceiling. "Thought you didn't need to say the words, anymore."  
  
  
"I don't." Potter's face hovers into view again, and at least he's no longer smirking. He actually looks rather contrite. "But I didn't want to alarm you, unduly. Down, we go."   
  
  
Draco is pleasantly surprised that he's lowered gently to the bed instead of dropped like a sack of potatoes. The covers have conveniently been pulled back--whether through Potter's focus, or the Room's initiative he doesn't know--and the sheets are deliciously cool through his threadbare clothes.  
  
  
"You'd better transfigure me nicer clothes, tomorrow," Draco purrs sleepily, letting himself sink into the heavenly softness.  
  
  
Potter nods, though he seems a bit distracted again. "You've my word on it. Think you'll be alright on your own, then?"  
  
  
Stetching and sliding his arms under the piles of pillows, Draco's eyes slip shut. "I'm  _twenty_ -seven, you simp, not seven." But he doesn't stop Potter from pulling the covers up over him, all but tucking him in.  
  
  
"I'll take that as a 'yes'. See you in the morning, Malfoy." That warm, contented tone is back in Potter's voice, and Draco knows the meaning of it. In Potter's mind, he's already in his rooms with Creevey, being kissed and touched and--  
  
  
-suddenly Draco's much less sleepy. "Rushing off to see lover-boy, are we?"   
  
  
He opens his eyes just as Potter's face appears above him again: a square moon with green-cheese eyes, gone mask-like for the first time since he tumbled out of the fireplace and saw who was waiting for him.   
  
  
"Yes, I am. So, I'll wish you a good night before you say something that manages to alter my fine mood." He starts to turn away, but Draco catches his arm.  
  
  
"You could've done acres worse, you know." Grudging, but no less true. Potter's made a mess of his personal life, but in that one respect, he seems to have done alright. "I thought for certain you'd end up married to Weaselette, with ten little red-haired, near-sighted Potters."  
  
  
That surprises a laugh out of Potter. "Ginny? Good Lord, but that ship sailed ages ago!"  
  
  
"Good thing for her, what with you being a shirt-lifter, now."   
  
  
Potter rolls his eyes. "Good night, Malfoy."  
  
  
"Oh, I didn't mean it like  _that_ , I only meant--Potter, come  _back_ , I'm just trying to be civilized, and you're getting offended over nothing at all!" Draco sits up, despite the spinning of the room, tugging at Potter's sleeve till he sighs, and turns back to the bed. "Creevey's  _not_  much to look at, but there's something rather unique about him. And though I can't fathom why he'd be drawn to you, I can certainly see  _his_  appeal."  
  
  
"Can you?" One dark eyebrow twitches upward knowingly, and Draco huffs, turning his face away.   
  
  
Though lack of eye contact won't hinder Potter in the slightest if Occlumency doesn't.  
  
  
"Look--don't read anything into a simple compliment, I just meant that Creevey seems more interesting than the average Gryffindor." If Draco squints, he can make out ripples on the lake. The giant squid must be feeling frisky tonight—or perhaps the Grindylows have caught some unfortunate in their clutches. "Though his taste in lovers is suspect, he's still a veritable cut above the rest of his House. There. Compliment paid. Now run along, before he thinks I've stolen you away."  
  
  
(Though they both know Creevey wouldn't think any such thing, because 1. It would be rubbish and 2. There's a core of confidence and security to the man that Draco could easily come to envy.)  
  
  
After a few silent minutes, Potter sits on the edge of the bed.  
  
  
"Speaking of being a cut above one's House . . . I never said--thank you. For what you did," he says softly. It seems apropos of nothing, but Draco knows exactly what Potter's referring to, and Potter knows he knows.  
  
  
"Is that what this is all about? Your misguided attempt to save my life, like I saved yours? Because if so, you really ought to get over that sometime soon." Draco lays down and closes his eyes tight, half afraid he'll see Potter on the backs of them. Not Potter as he is now, posh and arrogant.   
  
  
Potter as he was seven years ago, broken beyond bleeding; a living skeleton whose bread and butter had been the Cruciatus, cast from the wand of his own year-mate. . . .  
  
  
Thankfully closing his eyes occasions nothing more gut-wrenching than Potterless, velvety darkness.  
  
  
"I told you why I chose you, Malfoy--"  
  
  
"--and you also told Weasel that you're a man who believes in paying back debts."  
  
  
"I paid that life-debt back just by keeping the Wizengamot from tossing you to the Dementors. I  _could_ 've let you rot in prison for the rest of your life. You'd deserve no less for what you've done."  
  
  
Draco grunts, too tired to argue the point. After all, what would a Muggle-raised understand about the justice of revenge? About rights of blood vengeance that have been purposely  _mis_ -understood and warped out of true by Mudbloods and Muggles for centuries?  
  
  
"I was within my rights. Rights handed down by your precious Godric Gryffindor, of all wizards," he says finally, breaking one rule he's always held fast to: Malfoys are above justifications, self or otherwise. “MacNair wiped out half the remaining Malfoys. I simply repaid him in kind.”  
  
  
“Walden MacNair was dead when you killed them,” Potter says without discernable emotion. Draco squeezes his eyes shut so tight it hurts.  
  
  
“Nevertheless.” His equally emotionless reply.  
  
  
" _Nevertheless_." Potter lays a hand on Draco's arm, going on. "The same reason I couldn't let the Ministry get away with letting one murderer go Scot-free, covered in and weighed down by Orders of Merlin--lauded for 'neutralizing a grave threat' . . . then condemn another murderer to life in Azkaban or the living death of the Dementor's Kiss. Murder's murder--no matter who the victim, or who the perpetrator—or it isn't. The Ministry can't have it both ways. I won't  _let_  them . . . they can't steal your chance at atonement, even if you don't know you want it yet."  
  
  
"I beg your pardon? How dare you assume I'll--" Surprised into looking at Potter, he catches a flash of something--envy?--that's hidden away, pushed behind the mask so quickly, he wouldn't be sure he saw it at all if Potter wasn't so quick to look away.  
  
  
Ah, and so much becomes clear. . . .  
  
  
Earlier, Potter had told Weasel that he no longer believes in atonement--a most un-Gryffindor statement, to be sure . . . and only partially true. It's plain now that Potter believes deeply in atonement when the person in question isn't himself.  
  
  
The Boy Who Triumphed, Savior of the World isn't even allowed to own the so-called crimes that are still clearly eating away at him. And if there's one thing Gryffs love beyond grave responsibilities and hideous scarves, it's righting wrongs, their own and others'. To be unable to do so must be sheer torment, especially for Harry Bloody Potter. Even Draco finds the thought of it somewhat depressing.   
  
  
Though that's surely owing to the left-over pity of seven years ago, not any actual  _empathy_.   
  
  
“Atonement and regret are useless, Potter. Speaking purely from personal experience, neither will bring back the dead.” Now he can look at Potter, and when he does, that barely hidden envy has changed to anger and frustration. There's something disheartening about such vulnerability in Potter, like minute cracks in an obsidian dagger. “It will not erase what has been done, nor make it easier to fall asleep at night. It means less than nothing.”  
  
  
"Parkinson wasn't an innocent, but I regret what I did . . . every minute of every day.” Potter has the desperate look of a guilty man in a confessional begging absolution of a fellow sinner, before that look wilts under the unabashed lack of shame facing him. “You killed people whose only crime was sharing blood, or simply a name with the man. You, the wizard who'd more than once put his own life on the line to save the life of an enemy--”  
  
  
“Is  _that_  what you think I did, all those years ago?” Draco smirks, and Potter looks away, confused and probably hurt. It somewhat satisfying that he's put that ovine look of hurt on Potter's normally stern face. “Oh, leave it to a Gryffindor to put the bravest, most tragic face on things. It's truly amazing that someone who's seen the worst side of people as consistently as you have can still choose to search for the 'best' in everyone.   
  
  
"I rarely feel the need to explain my actions, Potty, and I'm certainly not about to do it twice, so listen up." Draco struggles into a sitting position again and impulsively turns Potter's face by the chin. Those stone-green eyes are as flat as a Muggle photograph.  
  
  
"Parkinson and I started having an affair shortly after she and Theodore married," Draco says, surprised at the pang of bitterness that accompanies the statement, the momentary rush of anger directed at Potter. He has to close his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts, find the inner reserve that keeps that sort of memory at arm's length.   
  
  
When he can bear to look at Potter again, the blank look of shock he sees on Potter's face is proof that, whatever else he must've taken from Draco's mind and memories, he hadn't taken  _that_. Which shouldn't make Draco feel so much better about his mind being invaded, but it does.  
  
  
"I--didn't know," Potter says, looking horrified and guilty and  _flabbergasted_  that there's something he, the Great Auror, hadn't sussed out.  
  
  
"Of course you didn't know, dullard." Draco sneers, feeling it in every muscle of his face. "We weren't about to take out an advert on the back page of  _The Quibbler_ , were we? Purebloods understand the value of discretion. No-one knew but for the three of us."  
  
  
"The  _three_  of--" Potter's eyes widen, and he seems rather nonplussed. "Nott knew you were sleeping with his wife?"  
  
  
"Sleeping had nothing to do with it, and he'd have been a fool not to know. A wizard of his standing can't afford to be unaware of what goes on under his roof, so to speak," Draco laughs, a hollow party-laugh that was the only kind of laugh his mother had seemed to know. "Anyways, he didn't care. Their marriage was one of convenience. Theodore was practically a eunuch, and Parkinson . . . Pansy loved him in her way. But she was often lonely, and I spent a lot of time at the Manor."  
  
  
The quality of the silence is still solemn, but more confused than ever, and he knows Potter's going to make him spell out every word rather than take a few subtle hints.   
  
  
Said knowledge is borne out by Potter's next question: "I--why are you telling me this, Malfoy?"  
  
  
Draco resists the urge to look away. Wonders how a man as duplicitous and knowingly cruel as Potter can be, can also be sensitive and so unexpectedly dense. It's jarring, and something Draco's always wondered about. He'd long ago decided it was a quiet sort of madness, such disparate personality traits in one man.   
  
  
"Listen, I didn't doggedly investigate your disappearance, then ride in on a white charger to save the day, Potter. It was pure luck that I even found out you were there at all. Pure luck and bloody pillow-chat." He clears his throat. "Pansy can be-- _was_  the conversational equivalent of a sieve after we'd had an assignation. She would let hints drop that Theodore had someone in the Nott dungeons. An old enemy, that was finally getting what was coming to him. . . ."  
  
  
Finally, Potter begins to twig where this is heading. Draco can actually  _feel_  the change as the confused silence deepens, intensifies, ices over. The only physical sign of it is the Potter-mask turning brittle, and his hand dropping away from Draco's arm.  
  
  
"How long did you know I was down there?"  
  
  
"Several weeks--less than month." Draco shrugs, and Potter's the one to look away again. At the fireplace, his mouth thinning to an almost non-existent line.   
  
  
Draco doesn't bother to explain that he'd had no idea the prisoner was  _Potter_. That knowledge might very well have changed nothing then, and it certainly doesn't change anything now.   
  
  
Though had Potter been a more practiced Legilimens seven years ago . . . Draco certainly would have died with Pansy.  
  
  
Long past the point of extreme awkwardness the silence stretches, until Potter sighs and his shoulders slump ever so slightly. "Why are you telling me now? It changes nothing at this late date."   
  
  
"Because I am not a nice person. I am not a  _good_  person, nor am I a reluctant white knight that needs an opportunity to show his true colors. I am not on a path of atonement and redmeption. I merely am what I am: someone only out for himself, as the saying goes, as apt to turn on you as not.” Draco says simply, intently. “The quicker you realize that, the smoother our professional relationship will be.”   
  
  
The look Potter gives him is quite dubious. “Then why save me at all? And don't lie and say you didn't feel any compassion whatsoever!”  
  
  
Draco snorts. “You'd spent a month under Cruciatus and Merlin knows what else by the time I got to you. I wouldn't wish that on a hippogriff I didn't like. Of  _course_  I was somewhat sympathetic. I also didn't want the death of Harry Potter laid on my doorstep when Nott was found out, seeing as I had . . . close dealings with the family. It's called covering one's arse, don't you know?”  
  
  
Potter gapes at him, but answers the question with one of his own. " _When_ , exactly, did you know that it was  _me_  Nott had down there?"  
  
  
Draco sighs. No-one could say he hadn't tried, and with all of the tiny measure of honor left to him. Potter understands  _nothing_ , and never will. "When someone leaked the biggest story in the Wizarding World since Voldemort's defeat. The Boy Who Triumphed's mysterious disappearance was on every front page of every newspaper--it didn't take very long to piece it together, after that." The realization had been damn near instanteous, actually.  
  
  
"And what did you do, then?" Potter's voice is too-soft, too-calm. It takes Draco back to the dungeons, to a shattered right arm and the impending doom of the one person he'd ever let himself grow attached to--   
  
  
"I got drunk is what I did--for the first time in my life. Far drunker than you got me tonight,” he adds, just for the guilty wince from Potter. “Got drunk and nearly Splinched myself Apparating to Pansy's sitting-room. It took two doses of Wit-sharpening potion before I could make myself understood and a third before I was sober enough to navigate a staircase without breaking my neck."  
  
  
"And then?"  
  
  
Draco opens his eyes when Potter's hand settles on his arm again; the man's face looks pale despite the ruddy firelight, sickly with remembered horror and . . . anticipation.  
  
  
"You know what then, Potter," Draco says coldly, yanking his arm away. "Wandless magic."  
  
  
A single nod, curt and accepting. "Were you in love with her?"  
  
  
The question is so preposterous, Draco laughs, though he's far from amused. There's something that's been welling up within him, clearing some of the alcoholic fog around his brain. It feels like panic, or possibly a scream. " _Love_? What has love got to do with _anything_  I just said?"  
  
  
Another flicker in Potter's eyes that might mean anything at all. "Nothing, I suppose."  
  
  
"Then I'm not about to satisfy your prurience." Draco says loftily, only to see Potter's eyebrows quirk halfway up his forehead. "And despite what you may think, I'm not ruled by such useless emotions."   
  
  
"Oh, aren't you?" Potter scoffs. Draco's lip curls like a stray dog defending its turf.   
  
  
"That's depends on what you consider a useless emotion. I find rage to be very useful as long as one isn't consumed by it. You _might_  be surprised to know how long it can keep a man going--though I doubt that."  
  
  
"And  _you_  might be surprised at how long  _love_  keeps a man going . . . though I doubt  _that_." Potter's eyes narrow with challenge.   
  
  
"Why does it always come down to that with you Gryffindors? Love, love, love--not everyone has the luxury of living on that, whether due to our own choices or the choices of others." Draco tacks a yawn on the end of this statement, an unsubtle hint that he's both tired, and bored of this whole conversation. The room has once again started spinning, and he dearly wishes Potter would get the hell out and leave him be till morning.  
  
  
"My point, before your naivete dragged me so far off topic, was that if one oft-regretted act of stupidity doesn't make me a hero, nor does one stupid, unconscionable act of rage make you a villain. But being Gryffindor, I don't expect you to understand that. Having no doubt convinced yourself that I'm one tiny step below Christ, you'll also convince yourself you cold-bloodedly murdered my one true love and that I'll be forever bereft.” A cruel, inhuman smile that he'd once seen on his late aunt Bellatrix makes Potter blanch and sit back in revulsion. “I  _expect_  Baby Potter will self-indulgently mope his way into a room at St. Mungo's . . . you do so enjoy being the guilty center of attention--"  
  
  
"Fuck you, Malfoy." Potter jumps up as if he couldn't get off the bad fast enough. His voice is raw and shaky. "I don't need you to psychoanalyze me."  
  
  
 _Well, you obviously need_ something. "I don't know what that word means." Draco watches Potter walk toward the only blank section of wall on the Room, looking smaller than he has since . . . fifth year. He answers without looking back.   
  
  
"It means you should get some sleep because you've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." Potter's the one who sounds as if he needs sleep, and Draco wonders if his mood has been altered enough that he'll turn Creevey away. Not that, in the long run, any of it would have impact on Draco's life.  
  
  
The doorway cracks open, letting in torchlight that seems over-bright after the dimness of the Room. Draco swears and shuts his eyes again.  
  
  
"When I was a baby," Potter begins stiffly, low enough that Draco has to strain to hear it from halfway across the room. "My mother gave up everything, eventually her life, to save me. Not an agenda, or an entire world.  _Me._  The way I see it, seven years ago, you did exactly the same thing, with much less cause. And you became the bravest person I've ever met. Nothing you do or say will change that."  
  
  
"Giving me carte blanche, are you? Tsk-tsk, how unwise."  
  
  
"I choose to see it as taking a leap of faith," Potter says from a lot closer than the doorway. And when he sits on the bed again, Draco couldn't be more surprised--until calloused fingers tilt his jaw up, and warm lips brush the corner of his mouth, pressing firmly for only a moment then disappearing altogether.  
  
  
Draco's mind goes completely blank with surprise, terror, anger, and something that makes his insides quiver like crystal about to shatter. His hand itches to fly to his mouth to capture or erase the fleeting warmth--but he holds himself in check. Doesn't open his eyes, because he knows all he'll see is that concentrated, complicated green . . . get swept up in it like scores before him.   
  
  
(Half the personal charisma of Tom Riddle is still twice the charisma of any other wizard Draco's ever known--easily far too much when Potter's still so bloody  _close_ , the imprint of his lips still tingling on Draco's.)  
  
  
When Draco still hasn't opened his eyes or moved so much as a muscle, Potter sighs, though there's a bit of a chuckle in it. "Whatever your reasons, thank you for saving me, Draco," he murmurs, still close enough that the sigh and words feel moist and warm on Draco's lips. Then the weight on the bed is gone, and a negligent, amused "sleep well, Malfoy," drifts back from the entryway.  
  
  
"Go to hell," Draco grits out, though he wants to ask--demand that Potter come back and explain himself. Explain that  _kiss_  and everything else that's happened in the past few hours. Explain what in hell Draco's supposed to do now, since despite all the firewhisky, sleep is a long ways off and even further away from being a good idea.  
  
  
Explain why, even long after the door has ground shut and Draco's flopped back into the pillows, his eyes are still closed and his lips still tingling. Why even now he has to clench his hands tight at his sides to keep from brushing his fingers across his lips.  
  
  
An hour later, he's still wide awake and likely to be so for some time, forcing his pickled brain away from wondering what Potter and Creevey are doing right now. From wondering if--had he given some small sign that  _no_ , he would not be alright on his own--Potter might have stayed.   
  
  
And, had Potter stayed, would anything that might have happened been any better than this strange, gnawing restlessness?  
  
  
Under such a delightful onslaught of wonder, Draco's earlier euphoria collapses, and is soon replaced by persistent throbbing behind his eyeballs and queasy dread in the pit of his stomach.  
  
  
"Only eighteen hundred and twenty-seven more days to go," he whispers to the mocking darkness.  
  



	5. Proactive Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The myriad indignities heaped upon a professor of potions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: A vignette-y little thing in the Prisoner!verse. Set two years after the "The Prisoner Of Azkaban and Harry Potter".

"Miss Weasley. Mister Wood. If you're quite done flirting. . . ."  
  
  
One flat gray glare from Draco and the two third years stop their whispering. The Weasley girl--her mother's beauty, but her father's awful fiery tangle--colors, but the Wood boy scowls back, every inch the maligned Gryffindor.  
  
  
To be far more fair than the lout deserves, he's learned not to splutter whenever Draco takes points, merely do as he's told with that perfectly murderous scowl on his face.  
  
  
But insubordination is insubordination, silent or not. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Wood, for not courting Veelas on your own time, and thus causing me to waste mine. Now." Draco shifts his glare to include class at large. "Turn to page 167 of your textbooks. When you've completed the chapter, do feel free to start on your revision work for the weekend: twenty inches on the effects of pulped, versus dried and ground dittany in one of the three potions covered in today's reading."  
  
  
Draco glances meaningfully around the room. The groans are practically silent--no one, not even Wood is stupid enough to risk his temper the day before a Hogsmeade weekend--and he's in a fair enough mood, so he chooses to let the insolence slide.  
  
  
Or  _was_  in a fair mood until the door to the classroom opens quietly and a dark, bespectacled head pokes in for a moment.  
  
  
Frowning, Draco nods. When the head disappears back around the door--leaving it open, because Potter was born in a barn--looks around at the class. "Not a single word. I will return momentarily."  
  
  
He strides to the back of the room, out the door, sweeping it firmly shut behind him and continuing down the corridor past the constant thorn in his side.   
  
  
He can feel Potter at his heels, amused glances tickling him like butterflies brushing the nape of his neck.  
  
  
"Professor Potter." He stops suddenly, but Potter doesn't so much as bump into him. Draco turns to face his erstwhile master and wonders if he's becoming predictable, or if Potter's just gotten complacent. Either is unacceptable. "How may I help you?"   
  
  
Pointed, pointedly  _pained_  politeness because if there's one thing Draco can't abide, it's being interrupted during class.  
  
  
Though Potter's eyes are gleaming with repressed laughter, his voice is steady enough. "Just wanted to let you know I've taken Hephzibah and Koriolanis Flint to see Poppy. Again."  
  
  
"Merlin. Of all the days for that rotund reprobate to have taken his ridiculous little Slug Club on a field-trip--" not that Slughorn could or would have handled this. The first through third Slytherins are officially Draco's to teach and tend to. He is their head of House in all but name. Which makes the matter of the Feuding Flints well within his purview.  
  
  
Draco catches himself before pinching the bridge of his nose. The gesture is far too plebeian, and does nothing to prevent imminent headaches. "What did the idiots hex each other with, this time?"  
  
  
Potter's lips twitch. "You'll be delighted to know Kori is covered in purple boils and Hephzibah is belching up slugs."  
  
  
"Is it too much to ask that you keep better control of that free-for-all you call a class,  _Professor_?" Draco glares down his nose at Potter, who's still fighting laughter, his dark eyebrows writhing like agitated caterpillars.  
  
  
"Those two were hexing each other in the womb, Professor Malfoy. I could no more stop them doing so than I could stop a runaway train!"  
  
  
Draco eyes Potter's overdone attempt at innocent befuddlement quellingly. "You and I both know you  _could_  very well stop a runaway train, you--Potter. Why basic control over two unimaginative second years continues to elude you and the rest of the faculty remains a mystery wrapped in an enigma."  
  
  
Now Potter laughs, loud and genuine. "I figured I'd inform you and Filius straight off, see if you two wanted to coordinate your detentions with mine."  
  
  
" _I_  hardly need your help straightening out young Miss Flint. Though Filius might need some assistance, considering how often young Mister Flint misbehaves."  
  
  
Those caterpillars inch closer together, and that blasted smile on Potter's square ruddy face loses some ground. "Malfoy, even _you_  can't be blind to the fact that Hephzibah is more often than not the instigator of these hexings."  
  
  
Draco crosses his arms. "Really, Potter, Miss Flint is as savvy as she is subtle, which is to say not at all. Her father's child, in that respect. She's a common bully, one that her brother can and has deftly placated in the past, from what I've heard. If he's chosen to stop doing so, well, he's at least as much at fault."  
  
  
"She goes out of her way goad him into wizards' duels!"  
  
  
"Ever the voice of impartiality, eh, Potter?"  
  
  
"Malfoy--"  
  
  
"Surely any Ravenclaw worth his salt shouldn't be so easily provoked by that beastly girl. However--" Draco cuts Potter off before he can protest. "I can assure you, I'll take steps to make sure this nonsense doesn't continue. At least on Slytherin's end. I suppose it's too much to hope Professor Flitwick's response was the same. . . ?"  
  
  
"I haven't spoken with him, yet. I thought I should see you first, as you'll be having more of a time with Hephzibah than Filius will with Kori." The fading grin has relaxed in to something wry, that invites the sort of easy comradeship Potter seems to have with the rest of the faculty. "Though they're both hot-tempered, you and I know that she got the serpents share of that infamous Flint aggression."  
  
  
"Spare me Gryffindor insights into the Slytherin character." Draco waves his hand impatiently. "If Flitwick can keep a rein on that boy for the next few days, I foresee no future problems."  
  
  
From the beginning of his probation, time and circumstance have forced him to develop a public mask, of sorts. One that he--fervently, but not quite consciously--is grateful has turned his students' fear of  _Draco Malfoy, merciless-taker-of-innocent-lives_ , to fear of  _Professor Malfoy, merciless-taker-of-House-points_.  
  
  
Nearly two years into this farcical redemption Draco's masks, new and old alike, are once again flawless. His own House, at least, fears the man he tries to be now, not the man he was and fears he still is.   
  
  
In any case, a little judicious application of  _what would Snape do?_  and Miss Flint will be stepping smartly into line.  
  
  
"Say, Malfoy, speaking of this weekend," Potter says, about as horrible a segue as Draco's ever heard. "Does Slughorn have you gofering for him again?"  
  
  
"I'd hardly call procuring the ingredients for the next six classes gofering, Potter." No, he might not call it that, but that doesn't mean it isn't, damn Slughorn.  
  
  
"Hmm." The caterpillars draw in again. "Who's your chaperone?"  
  
  
Draco produces a thin smile at Potter's well-meaning little euphemism for 'armed minder'. "Auror Langley will be my escort for the day."  
  
  
"Ah." Potter bites a lower lip that's chapped and indented with teeth marks, seemingly at a loss for words. "Well. I mean. If you'd like, that is, I could take you, instead. I'm a lot more likely to swing through Knockturn Alley on the way back, than Langley."   
  
  
At Draco's narrowed eyes, Potter laughs a little. "Malfoy, you're apprenticed to a potions master. What are the odds you  _wouldn't_ , on occasion, need to go to Knockturn Alley for a supply run?"  
  
  
Draco starts to run a hand over his hair, but nips that impulse in the bud, as well. "Shouldn't you have better things to do with your Saturday than chauffeur about a convicted murderer? The bloom is finally off the rose, is it? Creevey's clearly not as jealous of your time as he used to be." He tsks rather pitilessly, though the question shouldn't have been asked at all. Aside from the fact that Draco already knows why Potter won't be spending his Saturday with Creevey--when it comes to Potter's life, Draco shouldn't and doesn't give a Dementor's damn for any of the gory details.   
  
  
Except when it comes to the plain, plain-spoken man who's made it  _very_  clear, on more than one occasion, that he considers himself Potter's . . . heart and soul.  
  
  
Two years, and Draco has yet to outgrow this ridiculous and inexplicable fascination with Dennis Creevey. Has shown no sign of ever doing so.  
  
  
Then again, neither has Potter, possibly to his own detriment. There's a flicker of something like pain, like worry always lingering in the normally opaque gaze. At any mention of Creevey, it intensifies, darkening the green of his eyes.  
  
  
"Dennis is going to spend the day at St. Mungo's again, visiting Colin, and. . . ." Potter trails off quietly, then clears his throat, visibly switching gears. "Anyways, aside from supervising the Flints' detention tonight, I'm free all weekend, if you'd also like to get back to practicing your legilimency a bit. I know our last session ended on an . . . awkward note. But if nothing else, it outlined how much you're improving."  
  
  
 _Yes, that's not all it outlined_. Draco snorts. Leave it to Potter to put the best, most inane spin on even that disastrous evening. Three months, and neither of them have either alluded to even the existence of legilimency in the two dozen autonomic lessons since, focusing instead on fine-tuning locomotive charms.  
  
  
Potter's smile turns a touch strained, and Draco wonders if three months is enough time for him to have put his more private thoughts and memories away where Draco's fledgling legilimency can't get at them.  
  
  
Well, whether he has or hasn't isn't Draco's concern, is it? He's Potter's apprentice, not his bloody friend, or father-confessor. Isn't Potter's nursemaid or his paramour (certainly not that last, else he'd be spending all his free time at St Mungo's, chaffing the non-responsive hand of a repeatedly Obliviated brother . . . at the cost of his personal and professional life).  
  
  
But left to brood and sulk on his own all day Saturday, Merlin only knows what Draco will inadvertently see in Potter's head during their next session. He shudders. "I'll leave working out the details with our beloved Ministry to you. I'll be at the Apparition point at 9am sharp."   
  
  
Potter groans. "The Ministry, right. Apparition point, 9am. And legilimency practice after dinner tomorrow?" Draco nods once, grudgingly, and that silly grin flashes out like a lumos. "Brilliant. And thank you for taking such proactive measures in the Flint matter, Professor Malfoy."  
  
  
Draco sniffs and turns back toward his class as Potter does the same. "Don't be fatuous, Professor Potter."  
  
  
When he flings open the door of the potions classroom, quiet whispers and titters cut off suddenly. He smirks, already tabulating how many points Gryffindor will lose for chattering in his absence.


	6. Heavy Words, and Lightly Thrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the Smiths sum it up much better than I ever could, but . . . epiphany meets inordinately bad timing. Wackiness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set post-Hogwarts by thirteen years, in the Prisoner!verse, a few months after "Proactive Measures." Angsty.

"You have to know something more than they do!" Creevey blurts out, blocking a surprised Draco at the entrance to the Potions classroom, taking up the rest of a conversation Draco doesn't recall starting and has no intention of continuing.  
  
  
He tries to move past Creevey into the dim corridor, but finds his way blocked again by the wide-eyed, clearly upset wizard. He sighs. "Of course I do. And I know a lot more than that, besides. Now, if you'll excuse me. . . ."   
  
  
But Creevey doesn't move, merely gapes at him for a moment. Gobstruck is not a particularly attractive expression on him.   
  
  
Crossing his arms, Draco sneers as forbiddingly as possible. He'll not likely cow the man, only annoy him, but sneering is habit, and those die hard. "How may I assist you, Mr. Creevey, and at such a mature hour?"  
  
  
Creevey's mouth shuts with a snap and he squares his narrow shoulders. "The Mediwitches and Wizards--the ones that say he'll--" those pale blue eyes are shuttered as his shoulders slump. "You're from a family of dark witches and wizards, practically one yourself--"  
  
  
Draco's lip curls like that of a cornered stray. "I never took the Mark, if you'll recall."  
  
  
Creevey laughs, a jagged sort of exclamation. "There were Dark Wizards long before there was anything so convenient as a Dark Mark to make spotting them easi--oi! Steady on!" He glares when Draco grabs his arm and propels him into the corridor.  
  
  
"A little more discretion from you, Creevey. I'd rather not have teams of Aurors breaking down my wards in the middle of the night. Yet again," he hisses in the man's ear, close enough to smell his skin . . . almost taste it. But Creevey yanks his arm away and plants himself in Draco's path, like he's settling in for a good, long talk-- _like it, or not, Mr. Malfoy_.   
  
  
Draco glances around the seemingly empty corridor and sighs again. "If you must persist in asking me such questions, you'll not do so in a public corridor. Come with me."  
  
  
He steps around Creevey and stalks off deeper into Slytherin territory. Creevey shadows him, edgy but wraith-silent. They encounter no one on their way. Of course. The only other people with reason to be about this late are the Prefects and Filch. The former learned long ago to turn a blind eye to Professor Malfoy's late night strolls and the latter is rarely seen near the Dungeons, anyway.  
  
  
A brief pause to check that the Potions supply closet is still locked--Draco muttering about Gryffindor thieves--and they continue on to his office.  
  
  
The Dungeons are far too dank and dismal for a sybarite of Slughorn's age and temperament to take up residence in, but perfect for Draco. His office and personal quarters were once Snape's, and he finds such blatant reminders of the man he's been forced to model his post-Azkaban life after . . . comforting.   
  
  
After all, if Snape had learned put up with that scatty old codger Dumbledore for twenty years, then Draco could certainly tolerate Potter for a mere five.  
  
  
At nearly three years on, he finds he has to tell himself that less and less often. His life, though far from good, is tolerable.  
  
  
 _Most of the time,_  Draco thinks, wandlessly unlocking his office door and passing through his wards. Creevey follows him in trustingly, stupidly. Merlin save the world from Gryffindors.  
  
  
But at least he has the good sense to look around him once inside. Draco does the same out of habit, noting the full bookshelves and spartan furnishing. A desk and chair directly opposite to the door. Two sturdy old chairs in front of his fireplace. A cloak-rack near the door. All of it undisturbed since this morning.  
  
  
Draco sits in the left-hand chair without offering Creevey its opposite. But the man immediately takes it anyway, as if they've been sitting together at this hearth for years. The thought sends a frisson of-- _something_  through Draco.  
  
  
For while, nothing is said. Draco tries not to stare at Creevey, and Creevey stares at his hands. They're shapely and clean. Draco briefly wonders if he and Potter play Quidditch together, but is easily distracted by the rare chance to observe without being observed.  
  
  
As usual, Creevey's eschewed decent wizarding attire for yet another pair of a seemingly endless supply of denim trousers, and sports-related jersies ( **Puddlemere United**  this one proclaims in faded gold letters; every so often a tiny snitch goes flitting across the deep blue background). Instead of sandals, his feet are shod in some sort of silly Muggle tennis shoes, a concession to the chilly weather.  
  
  
There's nothing special about Creevey's looks either, as Draco will be the first to attest, should anyone ever ask him. He's a man of average height, tending toward short (an inch taller than Potter, three inches shorter than Draco), average build, tending toward slim, with even, completely unremarkable features aside from his eyes.  
  
  
Eyes that are currently concealed by a hanging head and shaggy fringe, but have recently looked like nothing so much as desperate and lost.  
  
  
"Explain yourself," Draco commands, almost gently. Creevey brushes his hair off his face and it immediately flops back.  
  
  
"They keep saying he'll get better. That he's not just a piece of meat laying in a hospital bed, staring out a bloody window till he stops breathing. For eight years they've said  _have hope_  and  _we'll sort something out. You'll get your brother back_." Creevey turns his gaze from the empty hearth to his hands, biting his bottom lip. A habit picked up from Potter, no doubt.  
  
  
"But you no longer believe that," Draco prods when Creevey's brooding silence has filled up a good five minutes.  
  
  
"How can I? They can't even fix Gilderoy bloody Lockhart for more than a few days at a time. Col wasn't-- _isn't_  as lucky."  
  
  
"Lucky? Interesting word choice to describe any patient in the Spell-Damage ward."  
  
  
Creevey laughs bitterly. "Not their exact words, but that's what was implied. That we were lucky Col wasn't dead. D'you know my mum would go to church every day just to thank the Lord for sparing her boy? But she never asked Him to bring Col back, no. As if God might actually take her child's life as punishment for her presumption, if she did."  
  
  
"That's ludicrous."  
  
  
"Not to a lapsed Catholic. She never stopped blaming herself for--'a lifetime of sin' being visited upon her firstborn. Till the day she died, she--" Creevey stops himself, as if aware he's rambling.  
  
  
Draco shifts uncomfortably, unsure of how to offer comfort, even if he were of a mind to. Mrs. Creevey had been a . . . kind, if distracted woman. Nothing like his own mother, of course. Very obviously Muggle, small, thin. Plain, like her sons: annoyingly enthusiastic, like her eldest son. She'd doted ridiculously on her youngest, however. And Potter, as well; in such a manner that even Draco's teeth ached when he saw her simply in passing.   
  
  
But the orphan in Potter had seemed to take her in stride, went out of his way to make time for her, even when Creevey was off de-cursing . . . whatever.  
  
  
"The worst Obliviates on record weren't catatonic," Creevey says so softly, it robs his voice of any tone. "They'd simply regressed to a state of mental infancy. A blank slate that was capable of learning-- _re_ learning their lives all over again. If it was just that, it would've been . . . hard. But in time, I'd have had my brother back. Colin . . . his mind wasn't just wiped clean, it was wiped out. It's a miracle the part of his brain that controls involuntary function hasn't suffered."  
  
  
Following Creevey's gaze to the cold fireplace, Draco mutters  _Incendio_ , and a blazing, inappropriately cheery fire springs into being. He does this in unheard of deference to Creevey's lack of robe. But his guest seems to notice neither the wandless magic, nor the fire itself.   
  
  
Sighing, Draco casts his mind over what he knows.  
  
  
Mostly, it's just dribs and drabs he's heard from Potter: Colin Creevey has been in the Spell-Damage ward of St. Mungo's for ten years. Obliviated by person or persons unknown, whilst chasing the biggest story that would ever hit the pages of any newspaper in the wizarding world.  
  
  
Three days after Potter was found stumbling around Devon, delirious and half dead,  _Creevey_  was found, blank, dehydrated and filthy, at the outskirts of Nott Manor.   
  
  
To this day, there is only speculation about how many times Creevey had been Obliviated, and in how rapid a succession. The wand presumed to have done the Obliviating was destroyed, along with its wielder, making  _Priori Incantato_  useless for revealing anything other than--the last spell Creevey had cast was not defensive in nature.  
  
  
Snuck up on and cursed while his back was turned, is the prevailing theory. Colin Creevey had  _not_  been challenged to a Duel.  
  
  
Draco's mouth purses in distaste. "And all of this concerns me . . . how?"  
  
  
The tired gaze Creevey turns on him is too candid, too uncomfortable to bear, and Draco isn't even looking at him. "We live in a _magical world_ , goddamnit. There has to be something. If not a spell, then a potion--"  
  
  
"There doesn't  _have to_  be anything, Mr. Creevey," Draco says coldly, or means to. But for some reason, his voice only sounds matter of fact. No doubt the late hour effecting his energies. "And just as one does not cure toxins with spells, so one does not cure curses with potions. Any third year, even a Hufflepuff could tell you the same."  
  
  
"There are exceptions--"  
  
  
"--that merely prove the rule." Draco meets Creevey's gaze, steeled against it. Or so he thinks till his heartrate picks up ever so slightly.  
  
  
"He's my brother, Mr. Malfoy. Any exception is enough. Even if it only proves the rule." The righteous conviction that Potter seems to burn with almost constantly, shines quietly, but no less powerfully in Creevey's eyes now, the blue of them like the heart of a flame. "Can you help me?"  
  
  
"I doubt it."  
  
  
"Let me rephrase: if there's anything that can be done,  _will_  you help me do it?"  
  
  
"Of course not."  
  
  
A flare of that righteous Gryffindor anger, but with compellingly dark undertones of despair. Creevey seems to blink it away, his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair till they're as bloodless as any corpse. "But you're a Malfoy--probably a direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin! You were  _weaned_  on the Dark Arts."  
  
  
Draco delicately hoists a quelling eyebrow. "I'm no dark wizard, despite what you may have heard or surmised. I'll admit that my family tree is . . . colorful. But I no longer have access to the Dark magic and artifacts once associated with it. The Malfoy collections and libraries are buried so deep within the Ministry even Scrimegour probably can't get to them. I'll bet Potter can, though," Draco adds, thinking:  _those spineless boot-lickers would stand on their heads if Potter asked._  
  
  
Creevey snorts. "Harry does seem to be their fair-haired boy, once more. Was touch and go for quite a while there, because of you. And me," he adds ruefully.  
  
  
A silence falls between them, too laden with grim irony to be comfortable.  
  
  
"Creevey . . . for what it's worth, St Mungo's is quite possibly the best hospital on Earth. And while I don't suggest making a habit of accepting popular wisdom, if anyone can find a way--"  
  
  
"Bollocks." Creevey's voice is low with anger. "They've already  _found_  it. Blood Magic, Dark Arts--something they can't attempt because of the Ministry's reactionary bans."  
  
  
"Then why, may I ask, aren't you charming the solutions you need out of Potter, or Granger? Between the golden boy and girl, I would imagine there's very little magic under Ministry lock-down that you couldn't get access to." The clenched-jawed discomfort on Creevey's face would tell Draco everything he needed to know, if he didn't already know it. "But then, Granger's too busy trying to create public policy to help you break laws, isn't that right? And Potter--well. He won't help you get yourself tossed into Azkaban or worse for someone who's been dead for nearly a decade."  
  
  
Creevey's head whips up in shock and Draco smiles humorlessly. "Your lover happens to be a bloody awful Occlumens." Or was, seven months ago. Teaching Draco has made him, by necessity, better, but still not as competent at it as at Legilimency. Potter always did have a flair for Offensive magics.  
  
  
In Draco's experience, the average Gryffindor knows next to nothing about covering one's arse. Though he's surprised and obscurely pleased that Potter has more sense, and self control than he would've credited him with. Dennis Creevey needs to be knee deep in the Dark Arts like he needs a bludger to the head.  
  
  
"You know about the fight, then."  _And how much what he said hurt,_  goes without saying.  
  
  
"Yes. I know Potter's a tactless, autocratic bastard with a cruel streak that might surprise you. Mainly because he would never, ever direct it  _at_  you." Reassurance. Possibly the first time Draco's ever given it. It feels strange, unpleasant and unnatural. "Believe me when I say that if there's a way and Potter's being less than forthcoming about that knowledge, it's certainly for your own good. Spells and potions like what you're after exact prices that people like you aren't equipped to pay."  
  
  
"People like me?" Creevey's mouth curls in a sneer of his own, and it's obvious the expression is one he isn't used to wearing. "You mean Mudbloods?"  
  
  
Draco rolls his eyes. "I mean Gryffindors."  
  
  
"Come now, Mr. Malfoy, House rivalries were half our lives ago--"  
  
  
"Tell me, Mr. Creevey. How many chunks of your soul are you prepared to trade away to have your brother back?" Those blue eyes narrow, the fire in them guttering a bit. Draco smirks nastily. "That's what I thought."  
  
  
Creevey looks away to the fire, visibly trying to calm himself. "It's not for Harry to decide, Mr. Malfoy. Or for you. I'm capable of deciding on my own what I will and will not sacrifice for Colin. But he--you won't even help me find out what my options are!"  
  
  
"And why should either of us? When whatever spell or potion doesn't work out quite the way you expect--if you're still alive after casting or brewing it--it won't be  _Potter or I_  that'll have to deal with consequences that, were you operating at all rationally, would leave you quaking in terror from even nebulous contemplation of them!"  
  
  
"That's why I need your help, Mr. Malfoy. To make an informed decision that'll keep Colin and myself as safe as possible!"   
  
  
"Perhaps. But that doesn't mean I'm overcome with the urge to risk my future for you,” Draco huffs.  
  
  
A frustrated sigh. "Look, just--forget whatever's buried in the Ministry or St Mungo's. It's verboten. Off limits. But you have access to Hogwarts' Restricted Section! Surely there's something in there . . . you don't even have to help me prepare whatever potion or spell you find, just jot it down--point me in the right direction!"  
  
  
" _Slughorn_  has access to the Restricted Section. As does any other professor here who hasn't been convicted of serial murder--oh, did I forget to mention that I've killed innocent people using magic?" Just to see Creevey flinch. Draco stands up and paces to his desk, the cloak-rack, the mantle. Repeats the pattern in reverse. "Are you so curious to know how that feels? How it is to live with the death of an innocent on your conscience every day for the rest of your life?"  
  
  
"You're twisting this around, trying to scare me—" Creevey's eyes are closed, as if Draco's pacing is making him dizzy.  
  
  
"I'm merely trying to reawaken what passes for your common sense, though why I bother--" Draco looms over Creevey for a moment, then looks away, trying to keep his mind from wandering paths best buried. "Mourn your brother, and lay this madness to rest. Get some Ministry official to handfast you and Potter. Adopt some children. Move on with your life."  
  
  
"I  _can't_! Don't you understand? Colin's worse than dead, now. He's in limbo." Creevey's voice is shaking and thick. "There's no moving on until he starts recovering, or until I . . . until I put him in the ground. Tell me you understand what I'm saying?"  
  
  
Draco does no such thing. Turns his attention to the mantle, where he keeps an unopened bottle of Ogden's Old Potter had gotten him three years ago, as part of a Muggle ritual called 'house-warming'. Though how one bottle of firewhisky could possibly warm an entire house is beyond Draco. "Look, do you want a drink or something? You seem . . . in need of fortifying."  
  
  
"Then I've been in need for years," Creevey mutters then smiles limply and waves Draco off. "No thanks. I'm straight-edge."   
  
  
Off Draco's questioning look: "No alcohol, no drugs, no . . . glowy, swirly potions. I don't imbibe, Mr. Malfoy. But thank you for offering." Draco shrugs away the thanks and sits down heavily. "I notice you and Harry have the same taste in firewhisky, though. Something to bond over, perhaps?"  
  
  
"Hardly. Who do you think gave me the wretched bottle?" Creevey laughs. It's tired and strained, but it makes something within Draco loosen, want to laugh, too. So he scowls harder to make up for it. "I don't drink, either. Mind you, if I did, I wouldn't touch that vile swill. Your girlfriend wouldn't know good taste if it jumped up and bit his nose off."  
  
  
"He's not, you know. Not my--mine. Not anymore," Creevey blurts out then answers Draco's raised eyebrows and unvoiced question. "I mean, since mum died, we've been drifting apart . . . and Col--"  
  
  
"Oh-ho. So it's the dead relatives' faults you and Potter didn't work out, is it?"  
  
  
"That's not what I said!" It's a rather childish sounding outburst, and Creevey immediately subsides, as if realizing this. Draco ignores the sudden roiling in his stomach, the fine sheen of sweat that's sprung up all over. Bloody fire's too hot.  
  
  
"I won't argue over semantics with you, since you seem quite incapable of mature, logical rebuttals at this time. However . . . I've seen the way Potter worries over you. Whatever really came between you two,  _you let_  come between you. Lie to Potter and everyone else, if you must. But don't lie to yourself, and certainly don't lie to me. It's a wasted effort, as I can assure you I don't care one way or the other."  
  
  
He expects denials, back-pedaling. A blush and stammer, at least. He gets none of them, merely a nod of acceptance, agreement or both.  
  
  
"I love Harry--have done for half my life. And he loves me." Creevey smiles again, but it starts to slip almost instantly. "But he loves me the way he loves the rest of the world. Impersonally, selflessly--"  
  
  
"Condescendingly?"  
  
  
"I was going to say 'protectively.'" But he makes a face as if he doesn't quite disagree. "There's no real passion between us--ease, yes. Until recently, being with Harry was as easy as breathing. But that's all it ever was. Once, I thought it could be more, if I was patient. But he doesn't--he's never looked at me as if he  _wants_  me, you know? Not really, not like. . . ."  
  
  
"Like?" Draco prompts when Creevey falls silent once more.  
  
  
"Nothing." He blushes and looks down at his hideous shoes. "He just--he doesn't, maybe  _can't_  love me the way I need him to. Selfishly, like a man who would keep me at any cost. I want to be that fiercely wanted, not molly-coddled and treated like some precious, fragile child."  
  
  
 _But that's precisely what you are, Dennis Creevey. Precious, and a child foolish enough to give your heart to a man who can save an entire world, but not himself._ If _Potter is even capable of loving you selfishly, as you put it, it'd kill him to do so or in any way admit it._  
  
  
"You're idiots, both of you," Draco says spitelessly, tonelessly, glaring at the leaping flames and running damp palms along his robe.  
  
  
"Why do you do that?"  
  
  
"Do what?" Draco snaps at the fire.  
  
  
"Act as if you hate him when you don't? As if you hate  _me_  when . . . you don't?"  
  
  
Draco's shoots Creevey an ice-edged glance. "Well, if we're quite done here, perhaps you should find Potter and see if you can't twist him 'round to your way of thinking after all. I imagine he'd probably do anything to keep you."  
  
  
Creevey shakes his head. "He'd do anything to  _protect_  me. But as I've said . . . that's not what I need or want."  
  
  
A sarcastic snort is all Draco permits himself, and even that's too telling. Or it would be if Creevey wasn't so oblivious to everything but his own drama.   
  
  
"Assuming I feel like taking insane risks for someone I barely know and care nothing for--"  _liar_ , Draco's heart whispers savagely "--what's in it for me?"  
  
  
Creevey looks up at him, hopeful and surprised at this seeming change of heart. "You mean payment?"  
  
  
"Perils of dealing with a Slytherin, Mr. Creevey: we don't do favors. So make me an offer or make yourself absent." Draco's face is already schooled into his coldest mask. This is all purely academic, though. Morbid curiosity and nothing more, as he has no intention of helping Creevey carry out this farce. There aren't enough galleons in Gringotts.  
  
  
Creevey stands and walks slowly to the mantle, his hand drifting past the Ogden's Old to a grisly bit of bric-a-brac that had once been Snape's, and has probably been in residence longer than Draco's been alive. "Alright, then. What is it you want, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
  
"My freedom? My family fortune? My  _family_? Ah! A time-turner, perhaps?" When Creevey winces again, Draco laughs and allows his eyes slip shut, closing out the firelight for a few moments. (He's not used to much more than minimal candlelight in his rooms. From the beginning, it'd seemed sacrilegious to have Snape's old haunt lit any brighter than absolutely necessary.  
  
  
And dim lighting suits Draco's moods much better, anyway.)  
  
  
"There must be something you want," Creevey says in a strangely still voice.  
  
  
"Must there?" Even were he inclined to be kind, no one--certainly not a corpse that needs only to lay down and die--would be worth losing even the pittance of a life he now has. There's nothing Creevey has that would do Draco one drop of good, beyond his influence with Potter. But Potter's already so far in Draco's corner, it would take several sticks of Muggle die-no'-mite to blast him out. "What I want, you haven't the power to give m--"  
  
  
Draco freezes when a hand pushes aside the heavy grey twill of his robe, and the other settles tentatively on his crotch. He opens his eyes to Creevey kneeling between his legs, eyes wide and nervous. Determined, in that earnest, Gryffindor way.  
  
  
"May I inquire as to what you think you're doing?" Draco seethes in clipped, arctic tones, even though he  _knows_ , and knows Creevey knows  _exactly_  what he's doing.  
  
  
Creevey swallows, but doesn't move his hand. At least not  _away_.  
  
  
And Draco doesn't dislodge it either.  
  
  
"I'm making you an offer," Creevey says, that sure, even voice at odds with the furious flush on his face. He squeezes tentatively, his fingers finding the buttons to Draco's fly, his eyes asking permission.  
  
  
Draco doesn't give it. Doesn't groan. Doesn't slouch down in his chair. Certainly doesn't spread his legs wider. Doesn't body-bind Creevey and strip him naked.  
  
  
Doesn't do any of these things.  
  
  
He is, after all, rehabilitated.  
  
  
"Your arrogance is rivaled only by Potter's," Draco says tightly, his breath gusting in and out in an embarrassing fashion. It's an uphill battle not to push up against Creevey's palm.  
  
  
"I'm not arrogant, merely observant. For some strange reason, you want me, Mr. Malfoy. I see it in your eyes whenever you look at me. I can see it, right now," Creevey says, sadness ghosting quickly across his features, lashes lowering to shutter his gaze. "Which only makes it more noticeable that I've never seen it in . . . other eyes."  
  
  
Draco's heart has been broken more times than he cares to count, and in more ways than he can catalog. He is something of a connoisseur of that particular experience. But the keen feeling that rips through him while Creevey simultaneously fondles him and yearns so poignantly for Potter's is . . . quite indescribably awful.   
  
  
For nearly a minute, all he can do is stare into the fire with wide, stinging eyes.  
  
  
"Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
  
Creevey's guileless blue eyes are confused, concerned; he seems quite unaware of the devastation he's wreaked, and Draco intends to keep it that way.  
  
  
"So you think a quick tumble will convince me to risk what passes for my freedom, possibly my  _life_  to help your brother?" His posture is relaxed, his expression entirely calculated to make Creevey flinch away. Modeled after a look Snape once gave a first year Hufflepuff, who then promptly wet her robes.  
  
  
All Draco receives, thankfully, is a painful-looking blush then blanch. "I--"  
  
  
Draco isn't interested in justifications, and shoves a very surprised Creevey away from him, bitterly satisfied when he goes sprawling. "I'm no hormone-addled teenager, to be led around by my prick. And least of all by a shameless deviant such as yourself. You may go, now."  
  
  
But go, he does not. Only gets to his knees and inches warily closer, as if afraid Draco might kick him. And indeed, Draco briefly considers it, until Creevey's hands come to rest on his thighs.   
  
  
He shivers, and a light comes on in Creevey's eyes, something wondering and bold.  
  
  
"I see," he murmurs, more to himself than to Draco, who bares his teeth. Creevey's response to that is a warm, quirky smile that makes Draco fight a blush of his own. "I'd actually like to rescind my previous offer. I want you, and regardless of whether you choose to help me . . . I'd like to have you."  
  
  
"No! Stay away--stop touching me!" He says hoarsely, smacking at Creevey's hands, masks slipping away more quickly than he can replace them under such a gentle touch, with such ridiculously sincere eyes leveled at him. "I said leave.  _Now_!"  
  
  
Creevey shakes his head slowly. "No, Draco."  
  
  
Before Draco can summon another sneer, Creevey's bobbed up and kissed him. It's short, almost chaste. But it sets something in Draco afire, makes him lean forward as Creevey pulls away, his hands clamping vice-like on the other man's arms to hold him still.  
  
  
Those blue, blue eyes are open and fearless and that gives Draco pause. He ignores his first instinct, to greedily take the mouth he's fantasized about for three years, and instead he pulls back a little. Studies the lips that just touched his own. Ponders the next kiss until Creevey starts to shift, and lean back in of his own accord, his eyes slipping shut as his lips brush Draco's lightly.   
  
  
For the longest time, there's only the warm press of their lips; the shallow breaths in and out of their noses. Then Creevey's right hand slides up Draco's chest, and to the back of his neck, urging him closer.  
  
  
Creevey's mouth is yielding and intent; sweet and salty, like pumpkin juice and crisps. His scent--  
  
  
 _Myrrh . . . that's myrrh. . . ._  
  
  
Draco grunts from the impact of his knees hitting the stone floor, but otherwise doesn't notice. He's far too wrapped up in the delightful stroke and slide of tongues, and the warm, firm body against his own. One hand is still vice-tight on Creevey's upper arm, the other sliding around to the small of his back to the slight denim-covered curve of his arse.   
  
  
This time Creevey is the one to moan, though it sounds more like a sigh of relief.  
  
  
This kiss . . . is unlike anything Draco has experienced or imagined. It's sloppier, wetter, more frantic. Immeasurably better. In his imaginings, Creevey wasn't so responsive, so deliciously desperate. He didn't  _want_  this as much as Draco does.  
  
  
Never has he imagined feeling such a visceral, reciprocated  _need_  for anyone.  
  
  
And having almost no one else to model his fantasies after, Draco had assumed being with Creevey might be like being with Pansy had been: pleasant, but ultimately unsatisfying.  
  
  
But Creevey is no genteel, Pureblood witch. He shows every indication of being able to take whatever Draco chooses to dish out, and then do some dishing out of his own--  
  
  
And this is the first time Draco's consciously considered the possibility that  _Creevey_  might want to bugger  _him_. He finds the thought far from repellent.  
  
  
"Merlin," is all Draco has time to mutter before Creevey's kissing him again-- _devouring_  him. Conversely, his fingers are gently stroking the nape of Draco's neck, undoing the length of ribbon that ties back his hair. Then there are gentle fingers moving across his scalp, scritching and scratching as if Draco's a large cat (and causing a rumbling sound that's embarrassingly like a rough purr).  
  
  
Creevey laughs a little, breaking the kiss by the simple expedient of tugging on Draco's hair. "You're dead sexy," he says in a breathless rush.   
  
  
" _Must_  you belabor the obvious?" Draco asks irritably, cutting off Creevey's laughter with another brief but languid kiss to take the sting out of the snark. He lays them down on hearth-warmed stone.   
  
  
He's built sparely, but still solid enough to hold Creevey down--not that he's trying to get away. All his squirming seems aimed at getting closer, not farther away.  
  
  
Creevey's hands slide back down to Draco's shoulders, to the long pale hair curtaining their faces, threading it through his fingers. The firelight makes his eyes dance, renders his features exquisitely lambent, and Draco wants to look away. He's an expert at self-preservation and seeing Dennis Creevey like this is doing many things to him, and none of them are about the preservation of himself.  
  
  
Creevey's hands shift, as if he's about to cup Draco's face in them. . . .  
  
  
He nips that in the bud by pinning Creevey's hands to the floor and attacking his mouth and neck with lips, teeth and tongue, memorizing the taste of soap and salt. Of incense and desire.  
  
  
Despite wanting to be in control of this situation, Draco is drowning in it, in the near orgasmic relief of finally, finally  _having_ , after three years of wanting, and going without something he's needed so badly.  
  
  
Someone he's loved however blindly and foolishly. . . .  
  
  
His mouth is possessive, seeking to be everywhere at once, woefully lacking in technique and subtlety, but his efforts are extremely well-received.  
  
  
"Oh, wow . . . oh,  _Draco_ ," Creevey moans low in his throat, bucking up against Draco, also with more ardor than artifice. "Would you . . . can I . . . bloody hell, I  _really_  want to fuck you."  
  
  
Draco's response is to rock his pelvis against Creevey's, hard and repeatedly. He's not overly familiar with homosexual argot, but that seems to be a correct response, if the protracted groans, and writhing of the body beneath his own is any gauge.  
  
  
He knows he should budge up a bit to get their trousers undone, if nothing else. He's spent countless nights imagining how Creevey will feel against him, how he'll taste. Spent these past minutes wondering how it'll feel to impale himself on the hardness growing against his own, until he's too lost in sensation to remember who he is--  
  
  
 _Yes, and you're doing such a fine job of remembering who you are, right now._  Smooth, sneering voice as familiar as the conscience Draco pretends to ignore.  _Falling in_ love _with, and letting yourself be . . . manipulated by this Muggle-born catamite? Potter's cast-off, no less? Why, you've quite outdone yourself, haven't you, Draco? Bravo!_  
  
  
Unsurprisingly, Lucius's amused observations in the back of Draco's brain dampens the mood. He rarely hears it, anymore--hasn't, in recent memory, done anything his father might have objected to, circumstances notwithstanding.   
  
  
Now . . . it reminds him of who he is. Who  _Creevey_  is, and most importantly, to whom Creevey belongs.   
  
  
As wake-up calls go, his father and Potter are more effective than a cold shower.  
  
  
"Draco?" Creevey is breathing heavily, eyes dilated, lips wet and very red. His legs are bracketed by Draco's, their hips moving in perfect counterpoint. Wool and denim do nothing to mitigate the hot hardness indolently thrusting past Draco's balls.  _No bloody wonder_  Potter's always grinning like a loon. "Is everything--are you alright?"  
  
  
 _What an asinine question,_  another voice notes; it's the one that doesn't sound like anyone but Draco. It's quiet, but stronger than it used to be. Oddly dispassionate.  _If you allow this to go on too much further, you'll never be 'alright' again. When he's gone back to his neat little life with Princely Potter, you'll still be stuck in these Dungeons, in this endless, awful life--everything made the darker for this tiny bit of light having been shed._  
  
  
Suddenly chilled despite the fire at his side, Draco returns his attention to Creevey's neck, distantly pleased when he wrings a high-pitched gasp from the man. It's still gratifying to be as good as, if not better than Potter at  _something_. This, too, occurs rarely, and very nearly restores the arousal that, between them, the voices have murdered.  
  
  
Very nearly.  
  
  
And it's surely only moments before Creevey notices Draco's flagging . . . interest.  
  
  
 _Self-preservation,_  the voice--his own voice--whispers.  _You know what we must do._  
  
  
Of course. If there's one thing Malfoys, Draco in particular, know, it's cutting off one's nose to spite one's face.  
  
  
Bearing down all his weight on Creevey, until the man can barely draw in a breath, let alone struggle towards completion, he waits till the pleas and profanity turn into soft, frustrated moans.  
  
  
"Shhh." He licks the delicate curve of cartilage leading down to Creevey's earlobe before closing his teeth on it quickly. Creevey shudders and shakes, exhaling humidly on Draco's neck.  
  
  
"May I be honest with you, Dennis? You'll live your whole life and never again receive such an offer from a Slytherin. You should feel honored." A choked-off whimper that Draco takes as a fervent 'yes, I do feel honored'. "I've wanted you since the moment I saw you. You were Potter's but I wanted you for my own; to make you crazed with wanting  _me_ , and no one else.  
  
  
"Eventually, Potter didn't enter into it at all, anymore. I simply. Wanted. You."  
  
  
Draco pauses, aware that he's losing the plot--saying far, far too much, but is unable to take it back. Able, only, to go forward, cut himself open as much as he can stomach because the only way to protect himself from worse pain and embarrassment in the long run is to douse himself in it now . . . guilt being the only weapon against a persistent Gryffindor.   
  
  
He has to make sure Creevey doesn't come sniffing after him again for some misguided reason or other, unintentionally destroying the praxes that keep Draco from complete despair.  
  
  
"One thing I  _never_  wanted was your pity," he hisses, his lips brushing Creevey's cheek. The skin is damp--smooth, as if he's just used a depilatory charm. "I never wanted you showing up here, dripping Gryffindor self-sacrifice, expecting me to lap it up gratefully. I never wanted you to willfully disrupt the equilibrium I have worked for  _three bloody years to attain_."   
  
  
He gets to his knees and sits up, releasing Creevey whose brow furrows guiltily, his eyes shifting away from Draco's. Time to twist the knife a bit. "'Regardless of whether choose to help me, I'd like to have you'. You almost had me gulled . . . and if I was any kind of Malfoy at all, I suppose I would applaud you for using my weakness to manipulate me, heavy-handed though it was, 'round to your side. Unfortunately for me, I've never been much of a Malfoy."  
  
  
Creevey's eyes flutter shut for a moment, then blaze fearlessly up into Draco's. His face is still luminous and earnest in the flickering firelight. "I meant what I said, Draco, and . . . love is never a weakness," he says softly.  
  
  
It hurts to hear that, and Draco sits back as if slapped. But he doesn't deny the feelings that would now be patently obvious even had he not admitted to them. Ignores the fact that his name said in that low, husky tenor causes the blood in his veins to sing southwards once more.  
  
  
"Really? Do you tell yourself that when you look into Potter's eyes and see only your reflection there?" Creevey's mouth drops open slightly in shock and hurt, and Draco wants to back-pedal, to take it back with kisses and more awkward reassurance--but no. No. Malfoys never whinge over collateral damage. He's regained control of this situation and that's what matters. That's--  
  
  
\--strangely unsatisfying. His nonexistent pride isn't soothed, and all he wants is to be alone. To forget what just happened and all the things he'll never have, of which Creevey is merely one.   
  
  
He gets to his feet as gracefully as his twisted robes allow and sneers down at Creevey. Opens his mouth to say--he doesn't know what. (It's difficult to focus when Creevey sits up and gingerly adjusts his pants, which still bulge noticeably despite the past few minutes.) "You asked me what I wanted in return for aiding you? I wish nothing more than to see you walk out my door and never darken it again.  _That_  is my price for researching your cure."  
  
  
Whatever he expected to come out of his mouth, it certainly wasn't  _that_. The last thing he needs is something to tie him to Creevey. . . .  
  
  
However, Gryffindors are notorious for keeping their promises. If Creevey agrees to stay away in repayment of Draco's help, he'll be as good as his word.  
  
  
"Well?" Draco smirks, smoothing hair and robes in one fluid gesture. Creevey watches him with wounded, disbelieving eyes.  
  
  
"That is . . .  _unacceptable_ , Mr. Malfoy."   
  
  
A small part of Draco is certain that Creevey is referring not to the amount of aid on offer, but to the price he'll be obligated to pay for it. But he doesn't need the ghosts in his machine to tell him that letting his resolve slip even a little could spell disaster.  
  
  
"That is my single term and condition, Mr. Creevey. You may take it or leave it." Draco walks over to his desk, not interested in seeing disappointment turn down a mouth that still bears the evidence of his kisses.   
  
  
"I'll take it, then," Creevey says finally. His voice is stony but for the strange hitch at the end. It takes everything Draco has not to look over his shoulder and see. . . .  
  
  
 _No. I will not give in to this._  "Come back in three months, then."  
  
  
It'll be easy enough to get into the Restricted Section after midnight without getting caught (he knows from firsthand experience). And since it's not as if Colin Creevey is going anywhere, he can take his leisure at researching.  
  
  
What won't be so easy is rebuilding the masks Creevey's destroyed, all unknowing. But one useful thing Draco's learned from Potter is that there's no such thing as failure, only opportunities for self-improvement.  
  
  
Draco's life to date has been rife with such . . . opportunities, tonight being only the latest example. An Occlumens of his ability should be better not only at hiding his emotions, but controlling them. Now that he's aware of such a gaping hole in his defenses, he can work towards repairing it in time for the trial-by-fire it'll receive in nintey days if, despite giving his word, Creevey makes anymore sexual advances.  
  
  
Speak of the devil and watch him appear. Draco can sense Creevey hovering hesitantly behind him, as if waiting for something further. For his sake, he'd better not be holding his breath for any further emotional outpourings. They'll sooner be levitating his corpse out of the Dungeons than  _that_  happens.  
  
  
"I trust you can find your way back to Potter's bed--and his selfless love--without my assistance?" Draco asks with snide solicitousness, snatching up a handful of scrolls: First Year essays on the key differences between pennyroyal, peppermint, and fluxweed--utterly abysmal, all, and already graded accordingly.   
  
  
"Draco--" Creevey sighs, and moves in silently. Draco can  _feel_  him getting closer, but still inhales sharply when a hand touches his waist, sliding around to his stomach to settle. "Please. Can we at least  _talk_  about what just happened?"  
  
  
"No, we cannot. Three months, Mr. Creevey, not a day earlier.  _Stinguero_." The troublesome fire winks out, and Draco pulls away from Creevey's hand, making for the safety and cave-like darkness of his suite without waiting for a response. Once there, he shuts the door and leans on it. With a muttered  _Excludus_ , the multiple wards on the door lock down tight, like a portcullis.  
  
  
A few minutes after the scrolls have dropped to the floor and he with them, Draco senses Creevey pass through the cursory wards on the office. Hears the heavy door snick shut and lock.  
  
  
The Witching Hour finds him as it almost always does, of late: alone, and in darkness that suffocates where it used to succor.  
  
  
Suddenly every candle in the room flares into bright, fevered life, casting leaping shadows all around.  
  
  
 _”Your intent, and the force behind, decrees the shape and the intensity of the spell. You seem to use the words as a focus, the way you would your wand. In time, you'll outgrow them both. . . .”_  
  
  
Potter had said that two years ago. Draco  _hadn't_  outgrown it, hadn't thought he ever would, but. . . .  
  
  
This lends credence to Potter's claim that, in magic, intuitive leaps forward usually happen in times of stress or desperation.  
  
  
 _Master would be so pleased, if he knew,_  Draco thinks with a detached sort of gallows humor. He reaches inside himself, toward the center Potter insists he has.  
  
  
What he finds is a grey knot of despair and confusion, tied so tight he couldn't begin the unraveling of it. As it is, he simply gives the knot free reign, finding it next to impossible to care what this tangle that is at the core of him will decide to do with such license. . .   
  
  
After a few minutes, the candlelight diminishes to acceptable levels, gutters fitfully . . . then winks out altogether, leaving him darkness once more.


	7. His Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coitus interruptus at four a.m.. Colin's chasing the biggest story ever, and Dennis is simply trying to get off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: A companion piece that takes place eight years before Heavy Words, And Lightly Thrown. I was reaching for dark irony, but if you haven't read the rest of the 'verse, this is pretty light-hearted fare.

Dennis awakens to the annoying mechanical warbling of his mobile, and the much less annoying sensation of a very enthusiastic tongue licking his cock.  
  
  
"Well, good morning, me," he murmurs, grinning at the ceiling for a moment, before opening his eyes and remastering the fine art of reaching for his night table. He manages nothing so much as knocking the Muggle-style alarm clock to the floor and upsetting the small table lamp.  
  
  
Not like it's doing such a bang-up job of illuminating the room, anyway.  
  
  
The ringtone--'Flight Of The Bumblebee', so it's Colin--is coming from much closer, it turns out. From his jeans, which are half off the bed. One of these days, he's just going to start sleeping with the blasted thing under his pillow.  
  
  
"Let it go to voicemail, then," says a sexy-petulant voice from near about Dennis's nether regions, before the mouth, which seems a thousand times hotter than the tongue, closes around him.  
  
  
It's not quite morning, but last night's nameless club-boy is still here. How . . . potentially awkward. Though less than it would be if he didn't have a mouth like a vacuum.  
  
  
"When I want your opinion on anything, I'll . . . well, I'll be a monkey's uncle then, won't I?” But he runs his hand through Nameless's messy dyed-black hair as encouragement. If he's going to be hanging around till daylight, better Dennis make use of him, then.  
  
  
 _And what a chore that'll be._  
  
  
His hand closes on his mobile and his jeans slide the rest of the way to the floor. Four-oh-nine a.m. Christ. He's more than tempted to take the unsolicited advice, let Col leave a message, and let Nameless suck him to hardness before riding him into the sunrise. . . .  
  
  
But even Colin doesn't ring him at four a.m. for  _no_  reason.  
  
  
Sighing, he flips the phone open. "Appnin'?" Ugh, has he been in Cardiff for too bloody long.  
  
  
 _"It's me, Denn."_  
  
  
"And who else'd be ringing me at four in the morning? What's up, brother-mine?"  
  
  
 _"Erm--the sky? Clouds? Birds? You, and on your way to Dorset?"_  
  
  
“Mm. Clever. Wait--what?”  
  
  
 _“Well--”_  Colin launches into an enthusiastic explanation while Nameless launches into blowing him off again, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock, balancing on Dennis's left knee with the other. Dennis remembers Nameless doing the same thing earlier: swallowing half of him, then all of him shortly thereafter.  
  
  
Dennis came so hard he saw stars . . . then drifted in sweet semi-unconsciousness till his mobile rang.  
  
  
Colin. Right.  
  
  
He exhales slowly, so as not to moan, rightly doubting Colin would appreciate a blow-by-blow of his brother's sex life--pun very much intended. When he can speak without his voice shaking, he asks: “Back up, a bit.  _What's_  in bloody Dorset at bloody too-bloody-early in the bloody morning?"  
  
  
 _“Weren't you listening? Harry Potter!”_  
  
  
“Right. . . .”  _Of course. Who else?_    
  
  
He's a grown man, and heartily tired of hearing about or helping his  _older_  brother chase down every Harry Potter-related bit of gossip Colin--and incidentally  _The Spyglass_  sees fit to print. It's all so damn  _Third Year_.  
  
  
Dennis has his own dead-end Muggle-style job, his own Muggle-mates, his own mediocre brand of Muggle-routine, the brightest light of which is enough opportunities for meaningless sex--with Muggles--to satisfy even the hardiest libido.  
  
  
None of this life he's carved for himself has anything to do with Harry bloody Potter or the wizarding world.  
  
  
And this nameless bloke--Mitchell? Chaz? Raoul? Who knows?--is apparently going for his merit badge in cocksucking. He's currently doing something with his tongue that  _probably_  isn't illegal, but most definitely should be.  
  
  
" _. . . since the news broke yesterday. My source in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement even managed to get me a copy of the suspects list and . . . they're really grasping at straws,"_  Colin sounds personally offended, as if DMLE ineptitude is perpetrated sheerly to brass him off, as opposed to being an institutional malady that has spread Ministry-wide.  
  
  
"Right, right." Dennis barely stifles another moan as Nameless Bloke pulls off of him with a scrape of teeth to straddle his legs expectantly, placing Dennis's hand on his cock with pointedly raised auburn eyebrows. Dennis rolls his eyes, but strokes without hesitation. It's only fair, after all. "By 'source', you mean that sad bird that pushes parchment in HR? The one who's got a crush on you?"   
  
  
He can practically see Col bristle.  _"Doris hasn't got a crush on me, and--she's not sad! She's--she's--"_  
  
  
"Exactly your type, mate: big dark eyes, demure, sweet ickle Firsty voice . . . general air of kicked puppy about her. No curves worth speaking of--" Nameless is making needy little whimpers, pushing into Dennis's hand and wiggling around till head of Dennis's cock slides past his balls.  
  
  
If only the poor bastard weren't so dashed  _shy_ , Dennis might be able to suss out what it is he wants. . . .  
  
  
 _”--ironic coming from the family poofter.”_  
  
  
“Better--Christ--than being the family git.”  
  
  
Nameless's impossibly wide, kohl-ringed eyes meet his, lock onto them. “Getting fucked sometime this century would be smashing,” he says, not loud, but very clearly. Hopefully not clear enough for Colin to make out.  
  
  
 _“Berk.”_  
  
  
Well, thank God for that. “Twat.”  _Lube in the night table,_  he mouths. The nameless bloke rolls his eyes and leans over, managing not to upset Dennis's hand.   
  
  
 _“Tosspot.”_  
  
  
A few seconds of rummaging and the half-used tube slaps down a wee bit maliciously on Dennis's chest. After tonight, he's going to start sleeping with his mobile  _and_  lube under his pillow. “Tsk-tsk, let's leave sweet Doris out of this, alright?”  
  
  
Colin starts to retort, probably with something snippy and far too true about Dennis's equally dodgy taste in blokes, then laughs. _“I've just told you I know who kidnapped Harry Potter and you're taking the piss over a girl I don't even see socially. A re-sorting of conversational priorities is long overdue!"_  
  
  
“No need to get shirty!” He has to stop his stroking to flip the cap open. Suffice it to say Nameless also isn't pleased when Dennis squirts the just-this-side-of-unpleasantly cool gel straight onto his cock. The pout fades once Dennis takes up stroking again.  
  
  
(“I don't top,” Nameless says, but doesn't stop the slippery slide of Dennis's hand.  
  
  
 _And I don't bottom. Shut up,_  he mouths back, brushing his thumb lightly across the tip of Nameless's cock. He finds that to be one of the most effective methods of shutting up any nameless club-boy.)  
  
  
“So, are you gonna tell me why you think Harry's in Dorset? According to your girlfriend, the DMLE has no real leads.”  
  
  
 _“The_ DMLE _didn't happen to be out having a drink at The Three Broomsticks with some mates from_ The Spyglass _, when who should stagger in, already drunk as six lords, but Draco Malfoy!"_  
  
  
"Wait--you think  _that_  arsey little git got the drop on  _Harry Potter_  . . . and has him stashed away in Dorset?"  
  
  
 _"Malfoy and Theodore Nott!"_  
  
  
Dennis adores his older brother beyond reason, but can't help a little sarcasm: "Yes, well, I see where that makes total and perfect sense--in this universe and any other."  
  
  
 _"Kindly refrain from taking the piss for a_ moment _, and hear me out, Denn. Malfoy looked like death, practically fell on me trying to get to the fireplace. He could barely say where it was he wanted to go--probably would've wound up in Kathmandu if my mate, Terry Binder, hadn't wrestled him away! Malfoy--the worm--tried to hex Terry for his troubles, but could barely hold his wand arm steady.  
  
  
"Finally the lads, er, showed him out. Of course I went after him, followed him to an alley, but there was no one there. He must've Apparated. And before Terry tackled him, I'm pretty sure the destination Malfoy was trying to slur out was 'Nott Manor'. So that's where I am."_  
  
  
Dennis freezes, mid-stroke, and receives a raccoonish glare that he ignores. "You're on Theodore Nott's property? Alone?!"  _And so obviously Muggle-born._  
  
  
 _”Not_ on _the property, but close. And I can pop over to Cardiff, get you, and we can Side-Along back here before dawn!"_  
  
  
"To do what, exactly? Have you forgotten this isn't the DA? We can't go rushing off into the unknown, armed with nothing more than our boyish good looks and a Patronus Charm!” Dennis is stroking again, faster and ruthlessly now that chafing isn't a worry. Nameless grabs the lube, covering his fingers and reaching behind himself without ever breaking eye contact. Dennis can actually feel the blood leaving his brain for all points south.  
  
  
 _This_  is what he brought the nameless bloke back to his flat for. This is why the nameless bloke--who actually  _does_  have a name, but Dennis hadn't been able to make it out over the din of the crowd and the horrid techno blare--had agreed to come back here. The vibe between them is strong, and strangely pure. A quick, dirty screw against a public lav wall wouldn't have done it justice.  
  
  
'Justice' isn't going to happen until Colin's off the mobile and safely ensconced in his London flat . . . far, far from the children of Death Eaters.  
  
  
"Look, I told you yesterday, Col, I don't even believe Harry was--you know. And certainly not by those two,” he says, albeit breathlessly. Slippery fingers brush the tip of his cock and Dennis hunches his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear, freeing his other hand to reach behind Nameless, who shivers prettily when Dennis takes over preparing him.  
  
  
 _”Then what_ do _you think happened to him?”_  
  
  
“Oh, I don't know--he's probably on holiday on some small, Unplottable island in the South Pacific.” It's becoming really difficult to concentrate on this conversation. Nameless is hot and tight and obviously gagging for it. Any other night, Dennis would've already obliged him twice and be either sated and alone, or resting up for round three.  
  
  
 _“He's not on bloody holiday! First, he wouldn't take off like that without telling Ron and Hermione--who look as if they haven't slept in weeks--and second, have you ever even heard of an_ Unplottable Holiday?!”  
  
  
“Well. . . .” Nameless is on his knees now, positioning himself over Dennis's cock. His chest is heaving gently, hairless and washed pale-gold in the meager lamplight. There's a tattoo over his heart of a dove being consumed mid-flight by leaping blue flames. “I'm sure there's an explanation for--”  
  
  
 _“It's called a cover-up, my dear dullard. Doris says Magical Law Enforcement's been running itself ragged trying to locate him for weeks!"_  
  
  
"Look, have you ever considered that Harry probably just--needed time away . . . from you lot with your . . . asinine questions about his favorite colors and--who he's d-dating and what it was l-like toooooo . . . you-know-what old You-Know-Who?"  
  
  
Nameless had been lowering himself slowly, centimeter by centimeter onto Dennis, a compelling look of tight-lipped concentration on his face, nostrils flaring. Dennis, in a rare moment of poor impulse control, has decided to help matters along by clutching Nameless's waist and pulling him down, causing them both to groan.  
  
  
Which does not go unnoticed.  
  
  
 _”Erm, Dennis--are you alright? You keep moaning, and you sound like you're . . . panting?”_  
  
  
Nameless's eyes are shut again, his head back and lips parted slightly, thighs quivering minutely. It's not the first time Dennis has been cause of, and witness to such a glorious sight, but it still remains one of the sexiest things he's has ever seen. He runs his hands up Nameless's sides and down his chest. Over his thighs to still the shaking then back to his waist, ready to assist whenever Nameless is ready to move.  
  
  
“I'm not moaning or panting, I'm-- _uuunh_ \--erm . . . just feeling a bit under the weather. It'll pass,” he finishes in a high-pitched blurt. Those innocence-wide hazel eyes fly open, shining with laughter, his mouth--still tinted with the remains of translucently scarlet lip gloss--stretching in a vulpine grin that Dennis returns.  
  
  
 _“Hmm. You've got Pepper-up on hand, haven't you?”_  
  
  
“Loads, mum.” Which is a lie. He hasn't been to Hexagon Alley since the last time mum had come to Cardiff and practically dragged him there. And he certainly can't be arsed to brew it himself.  
  
  
 _“Brilliant, sonny-boy. That means you'll be well enough to come to Dorset.”_  
  
  
Dennis squeezes Nameless's waist questioningly, receiving a slow nod, so he bucks up somewhat weakly, unwilling to move in such away that he drops the phone. Not with Colin poised to go charging off into the night, into the serpents den alone.  
  
  
A few more half-hearted, apologetic thrusts and an unhappy expression settles on Nameless's foxish features.  
  
  
“Oh, c'mon. . . .” Despite the leveling of Dennis's most charming and conciliatory smile, Nameless has fairly leapt off of Dennis--off the bed, and is searching the floor for his clothes, muttering angrily. Dennis is tempted to let him just go--path of least resistance, and all that. Plus, Dennis Creevey crawls for no one. . . .  
  
  
 _”C'mon, yourself! Even after Malfoy changed sides, he still hated Harry! And Nott may hide it well, but I highly doubt he's forgotten Harry was responsible for the death of his father and most of his friends! Between the both of them, they've got more than enough motive."_  
  
  
"But not the bollocks to actually  _try_  anything.” He  _doesn't_  crawl, he really doesn't. But as Nameless bends over to grab his trousers . . . Dennis realizes a bit of compromise may be in order. “Nott's a schemer, not a doer. And Malfoy's just--ineffectual at anything that isn't Potions or Quidditch. And nance as two pink galleons, if you ask me. Oi, maybe he and Nott are making the wizard with two backs? Did you ever think of that?”  
  
  
 _“Augh! I'd really prefer not to, if you don't mind.”_  
  
  
"Maybe it's the wizard with  _three_  backs, if Harry's really been in Dorset all this time. Nott, I wouldn't bugger with someone else's prick, but Malfoy's always been easy on the eyes. Half the animosity between he and Harry was probably repressed sexual attraction,” Dennis drawls, and between picturing Harry and Malfoy together and the nearness of Nameless he's actually wanking while on the phone with his brother.  
  
  
This will not do. Certainly doesn't when there's a perfectly fit bloke not five feet away.  
  
  
He waves a little to get Nameless's attention, and when he has it, Dennis turns on his best smile and crooks his finger. The coolly unimpressed glance he receives isn't a deterrent.  
  
  
 _Heel, boy,_  he mouths, smirking a little. When Nameless glares at him and starts wrestling tight black vinyl jeans up long pale legs, Dennis mutes the phone, laying it on the bed and out of Nameless's reach, just in case. "I'm nowhere near done with you, yet. Just hang out for a bit, okay? This is my brother, and it's a--semi-important matter, so gimme a minute, and then you can go back to fucking yourself on my prick. Right?"  
  
  
"You're a crude bastard, you know that?" But those rather too bony shoulders blades relax a little, come out of their offended hunch, and Nameless kicks off his jeans and flounces back to bed. Pointedly laying flat on his back, arms crossed and staring up at the ceiling. He's still hard--uncomfortably so it looks like.  
  
  
"Be patient and I'll make it up to you." Victory makes Dennis feel magnanimous, so he stops wanking himself and starts wanking Nameless. Kisses his neck and one prominent shoulder blade, nibbling just hard enough to make a few teethmarks. In seconds, he finds himself covered in ten stone of pouty-mouthed, kohl-eyed club-boy, who's returning the love-bites with interest.  
  
  
“You need to fuck me like you mean it, or I need to leave,” he says around a mouthful of Dennis's collarbone. It's an utterly ridiculous place to have an erogenous zone, but there you go.  
  
  
Dennis grabs one of his pillows and shoves it between himself and the nameless bloke. “Get on your stomach, then.”  
  
  
“Last of the great romantics, you are.” Nameless snatches the pillow and puts it back on the bed. Gets to his forearms and knees with a challenging look back at Dennis. “I bottom, but I'm not submissive. Let's get on with it.”  
  
  
Admiring both the bravado and the display--there's not much to the bloke, but what there is is very nicely proportioned and arranged--Dennis gets to his knees between Nameless's pale legs. “You know, low-rent and high maintenance never mix well in the same person. Stop being difficult.” He grabs the phone . . . and the lube after a bit of thought. Wedges one between shoulder and ear, uncaps the other.  
  
  
 _"--two years ago, after all,”_  Colin is saying and that is definitely not the tail end of a rant about precious, vestal Harry. Dennis frowns, laying a hand on Nameless's lower back--there's another tattoo there, some sort of Celtic knot design that makes Dennis's eyes hurt to follow it--before sliding lower.  
  
  
"What did you say?" Then has to say it again when he remembers he hasn't turned off mute.  
  
  
 _"Dennis."_  Colin sounds like Concerned Older Brother now.  _"You know good and well what I said. And if you take a moment to think about it, you'll realize I'm right. It's unfortunate that Harry didn't return your feelings, but it's past time you stopped wallowing and move on--"_  
  
  
"Wallowing? Hold on a minute! I got knocked back; it happens. But I didn't go home, burn my hope chest, then cry into my little lace pillow! My pride was a bit dented, but that was all. No big deal,” he says offhandedly, guiding himself back into Nameless's body with care . . . for the first glorious inch, or so.   
  
  
Then Nameless pushes back hard, hissing in pain, pleasure or both, his back arching, every muscle in his body strung torturously taut.   
  
  
 _Bloody size queen,_  Dennis thinks, biting his lip hard enough that he should draw blood, but doesn't. He clutches at pointy hipbones hard enough to bruise, but only to still them. It's a fight not to start thrusting his way happily, selfishly to completion until Nameless once again forces his body to relax. But one of them has to have a lick of common sense. . . .  
  
  
 _”It was your first kiss. It_ should _be a big deal.”_  
  
  
Nameless is fighting the enforced stillness--seems bound and determined to batter and break himself on Dennis's prick. Dennis is _this_  close to simply letting him. “If I was a big girl's blouse then it would've been.”   
  
  
 _Which I most certainly am_ not, he thinks, pulling out almost completely, only to slam right back in. Gives Nameless a moment to recover before repeating. His body knows this dance very well, can do it without thought or prompting. A good thing, too, as his mind is most assuredly Elsewhere.  
  
  
For two years, Dennis has refused to dwell on the lingering coolness of that spring night two years ago, or the way the crescent moon and stars reflected off the Lake. The way Hogwarts loomed comfortingly, protectively in the middles distance, the perfect romantic backdrop.   
  
  
He's refused to dwell on the way Harry--fresh out of Auror training--gently ribbed him about being four months shy of his seventeenth birthday despite being a full wizard. Or the tipsy-lovely sparkle of his eyes. Refused to remember the feel of Harry's lips--always a bit chapped from biting them--and that they'd tasted of butterbeer and dark chocolate.  
  
  
He definitely doesn't recall, on a daily basis, how perfect that moment had been, until Harry's surprise passed and he'd pulled away, avoiding Dennis's eyes. . . .  
  
  
 _I am a ponce of the first water,_  Dennis thinks, just as he had two years ago, while watching Harry turn away from him and back to the Leaving Feast. Thence, presumably, to continue schmoozing Dennis's friends and classmates into putting in for Auror training.  
  
  
Harry'd been dispatched by the DMLE to the previous Year's Leaving Feast for that same reason.  
  
  
The silence has on both ends of the conversation has officially gone on for far too long. The things Colin isn't saying ring loudly between them. Dennis had meant to distract him from silly kidnapping conspiracies featuring the three remaining Slytherins from Harry's year. But not quite like this.  
  
  
Nameless is still writhing below, and clenching around him, a fine sheen of sweat on his back, a furious flush sweeping down his body. He's stroking himself slowly, but roughly--something Dennis should and would be doing if he wasn't fucking the bloke on autopilot.  
  
  
Reach-around isn't just a city in Indonesia, after all.   
  
  
"Look, maybe Malfoy and Pansy are having an affair, did  _that_  ever occur to you? There were always rumors about them while we were in school.”  
  
  
 _"Dennis, there's more to this than some sordid affair--"_  
  
  
" _Think_  about it: while  _poor_  Theo's off  _earning_  his daily  _bread, Malfoy_ 's rogering his  _bored, insipid wife_." Words that fall on thrusts are clipped, and noticeably emphasized. " _Simple_ , and it makes  _sense_. Or if you prefer convo _luted_ , maybe all  _three_  are plotting to over _throw_  the Ministry together." And that last . . . still makes a hell of a lot more sense than those two spoilt bastards kidnapping Harry Potter. "Maybe--a lot of things, but I don't . . . think they've got Harry chained up . . . in a dank cellar somewhere."  
  
  
 _"I've heard rumors there_ are _dungeons on the Nott premises, actually, and--blimey, Denn. I'm really worried about him. Everyone is, except you!”_    
  
  
Dennis sighs. Holds Nameless still again and strokes his back. He can feel every vertebra, every rib. Can feel the rabbit-fast patter of Nameless's heart.  
  
  
It's tempting, of course, to give in to the Harry's-gone hysteria, if only because he's tired of pretending to himself that days, even weeks go by when he doesn't think about Harry Potter. But the fact is, Harry's the most powerful wizard alive, and if he's disappeared without leaving word, it's because he wants to, not because two of his year mates made it happen.  
  
  
And as for the matter of Colin sneaking around in Death Eater territory--"You  _really_  believe Nott and Malfoy are involved in Harry's . . . absence?”   
  
  
 _”Yes.”_  
  
  
“Then you need to get the DMLE involved. Now. Get as far away from that place as possible and let the Aurors handle it.”  
  
  
 _”Like they've handled it so far?”_  
  
  
“Bugger the DMLE, then! Go to Ron and Hermione! I'd take either of them over a squad of Aurors, any day!”  
  
  
Col laughs. Not the real one, but the one that's more nervous giggle than laugh.  _"Denn, he's in there, and they've had him for over a month. If they haven't killed him already, they will have shortly. And even if I told Ron and Hermione, they wouldn't believe me in time._ You _don't even believe me."_  
  
  
Which is true, but stings nonetheless. And still Dennis doesn't believe for a second Nott or Malfoy could've or would've taken Harry.  
  
  
He does, however, believe they could and would take Colin.  
  
  
But he's clean out of obstacles to bar his brother's snooping, isn't he? “Alright, then. If you'll wait five minutes--" Nameless gives him an evil look over his shoulder and meets his next thrust fiercely. Dennis's eyes flutter shut and a bitten off gasp escapes him. "Erm, I mean half an hour or so, you can come get me and we can sort this out together, just . . . promise me you won't do this alone."  
  
  
 _“Dennis--”_  
  
  
“ _Colin_. Promise me.” Colin occasionally doing something rash and fairly stupid is one thing. Colin doing it without  _Dennis_  to watch his back is just not bloody on.  
  
  
Suddenly the phone is snatched away from Dennis by a fine-boned hand with neatly-kept black lacquered nails. Nameless flops down on his stomach, seemingly oblivious to Dennis's frozen shock.  
  
  
“Hullo? Colin, is it?” His voice is composed, but husky. The kind of voice one doesn't want one's family to  _ever_  hear in any regard to oneself. “Daniel Davies. And I don't mean to be rude, but Dennis'll have to ring you back in a little bit." A pause. “Well, yes. Pleased to meet you, too . . . yeah, we were sort of in the middle of--yeah. Yeah.” Nameless-- _Daniel_  laughs a little. “So if you'd be good enough to promise to let him help you with whatever no doubt strange situation your friend Harry is in, he and I can finish up here and he's all yours.”  
  
  
“Oh, blimey,” Dennis exhales, sitting on his heels. He squinches his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose--tries not to imagine the expression on Colin's face, nor the drubbing he'll receive about this later.  
  
  
“Brilliant! Thank you, I--well, that's entirely up to him, isn't it? But . . . yes, I look forward to meeting you in person sometime, too. Right. Right, here he is again.”  
  
  
Dennis opens his eyes as Daniel holds the phone out satisfied sigh, then pillows his face on his hands when Dennis snatches it back, apparently content to wait. Mortified beyond telling, Dennis puts the phone to his ear.  
  
  
“Erm,” he begins, with no idea where to go after that. But Colin is chuckling quietly.  
  
  
 _"So, that would be_ the weather _, then? He's a pistol.”_  
  
  
Dennis pinches Daniel's arse hard enough to make him yelp, and doesn't care if Colin hears. ”Yeah, that's the word for him.”  
  
  
 _“At least your taste seems to be improving. Finally.”_  
  
  
“Oh, sure, leaps and bounds, mate,” Dennis snorts, soothing the offended area with a fleeting caress. “But I'm deadly serious. I'm not gonna let my brother have an adventure without me. Thirty minutes from now, I'd better hear my mobile ring, or you're gonna be in the shit next time I see you, understand? Creevey brothers against the world, remember?”  
  
  
 _”How could I forget?”_  Colin laughs a little. The  _real_  laugh.  _”But you're not just my little brother anymore, are you? You're a man now, with your own life, and loves, and pursuits. I . . . tend to lose sight of that sometimes.”_    
  
  
Colin's voice is fond, proud, somehow light years  _older_  than the two years between them should account for. Dennis doesn't hear that voice, that quintessential  _older brother_  voice often, but when he does, it's always made him stand a little straighter, try a little harder. Be a little better.   
  
  
Such a strange and wonderful thing knowing that, no matter how old he gets, Colin will always be older--always be his big brother.  
  
  
"My own life, yes. But no-one and nothing comes ahead of you, right?" And that  _is_  a question, because suddenly, he's not so sure Colin knows this simple fact anymore. Not deep down, where it counts. The thought that he mightn't is . . . dismaying. "I can be dressed and out the door in under a minute--"  
  
  
 _”Nah, nah. Look, you, just--enjoy the weather and I'll try not to do anything too stupid, okay? Talk to you later. Love you."_  
  
  
"Wait, Colin--"  
  
  
Nothing but dial tone. And when Dennis hits redial, it goes straight to Colin's voicemail. “Wanker!” He has to resist the urge to hurl the phone at the wall. Colin  _will_  call back, after all. He may not be thinking clearly, but he has to be compos enough to realize that getting himself captured and possibly killed wouldn't help Harry at all.  
  
  
And once Colin Apparates to Cardiff, well. Dennis'll sooner body-bind him than let him waltz into that nest of Slytherins.  
  
  
In the meantime. . . .  
  
  
Daniel's pushed himself back up to his knees, and is watching Dennis curiously over one pale, lightly freckled shoulder.  
  
  
“Your brother's sweet. Are you two related by blood?”  
  
  
He bites his tongue to keep from calling the presumptuous little blighter some choice names, and lays his mobile on the night table. “You're not Colin's type, if you're angling for a hook-up.”  
  
  
“Well, I can see which of you got blessed with the lion's share of charm and tact.”  
  
  
Dennis contemplates the creamy expanse of skin below him, ignores the twist of unease in his gut, lets desire overwhelm it completely. “Mm. Sadly, I've had to make do with blinding intelligence and an enormous cock: truly, life hasn't been very kind to me.”  
  
  
“ _Must_  you be such a crude bastard?”  
  
  
Dennis smiles fleetingly, grabs the lube and reapplies to them both, winning appreciative murmurs from Daniel. This time, there's no resistance when Dennis takes him, no flinch, no tiny pained noises. Just a relieved sigh. Holding himself up with one arm, he covers Daniel's body with his own. Lays his chin on a pointy right shoulder. “If I wasn't a crude bastard, you'd never have looked twice at me.” And that's pure truth, the way Dennis sees it. He need look no further than his own past or his brother's present for proof that nice guys get laid last.  
  
  
Those pretty hazel eyes flash back at him measuringly; Dennis half expects some sort of catty retort and dramatic exit, but in the end, Daniel shuts his eyes and pushes back against him needily, angling his face for a snog.  
  
  
Dennis turns way, instead burying his face in hair that smells of shampoo and cigarette smoke. Yet another bit of street wisdom Dennis had to learn after the fairy-tale that was Hogwarts ended: the more indifferent he is to a certain type of person, the harder they seem to work for his approbation.   
  
  
It's an axiom that he finds holds especially true in the sexual arena.  
  
  
He pulls Daniel's narrow hips back on his next thrust. Daniel squeaks, his hands scrabbling for better purchase in the sheets. Dennis doesn't wait till he finds it before pulling out and repeating. And repeating until the only sounds in the room are the slap of skin on skin and moans that don't resemble words in the slightest.  
  
  
Until Daniel's a boneless sated sprawl beneath him and Dennis's arms are shaking with strain.  
  
  
Until something molten in him coils and tenses for release. Every object in the room--including the bed--is shaking. Minute cracks are forming on more than a few surfaces.  
  
  
Dennis has pulled them both upright, on knees that seem inadequate to the job of holding them up. His arms are wrapped around Daniel's waist, and on the very periphery of his awareness, he knows that Daniel's hard again, and just as unable to come.  
  
  
“What . . . oh,  _God_ , I can't--please, touch me, Dennis. Touch me,” he moans, pulling Dennis's hand to his slippery erection.   
  
  
Dennis obliges, though Daniel's hand over his does most of the work. In moments or eternities, he does come, spilling hotly over both their hands, his voice ringing hoarsely off the walls. . . .  
  
  
But no such relief for Dennis. He can feel pressure building within him, but nothing as prosaic as impending orgasm. This feeling is more like the way he'd felt the first time he'd held his wand. As if all his life there'd been this energy growing inside him, unfocused, waiting, till Mr. Ollivander handed him the proverbial light.   
  
  
The dusty, creepy shop had fallen away, till all there was was Dennis, his magic, and the realization that he was nothing but a vessel. One that'd finally been given the tool to pour out its contents.   
  
  
And no matter how much of it got poured out, there'd always be more to take its place.  
  
  
But Dennis hasn't been pouring it out, lately. Hasn't cast anything other than the odd cleaning charm in months and all that magical energy is . . . restive, welling up to a painful crescendo on the back of the most intense sexual release he's ever had. Ready to burst from every pore—the sort of unfocused wild magic  _practicing_  wizards never experience after having a wand for a few months.  
  
  
Dennis isn't  _un_ practiced, hasn't been since the Battle of Hogwarts. The magic in him has been used to hurt and hex; to curse--and once even to kill.   
  
  
His is no longer the innocent magic of a child.  
  
  
“ _Contenerum_!” he grits out, the simplest, strongest spell he knows for containing wild magic, because the energy within him could, without proper focus, do  _anything_  from turn his hair blue, to reduce him--and possibly Daniel--to a pile of ash. “ _Contenerum!_ ”  
  
  
All that unused power hovers just below his skin, buzzing aimlessly, like uncertain fire ants. Filling him like hydrogen, ready to burn away everything that he is with just a single spark--  
  
  
"'Sokay . . . come,” Daniel breathes against his jaw, more of a sloppy, sweaty kiss than anything else, grasping at Dennis's hips and meeting what turns out to be the last thrust. The energy suddenly spirals inward, to the very core of him and he comes so hard and so long it hurts. Every nerve ending in his body is confused, screaming in pleasure and pain until they go numb and he's left prone and leaden on top of Daniel.  
  
  
The awful tension that's been building in him--for months, maybe since just after he left Hogwarts--is gone.  
  
  
Long minutes later, it's all he can do to disengage, and roll off of Daniel, who makes a disagreeable sort of huff and somehow shifts over so he can throw one leg over Dennis's.  
  
  
He doesn't find the possessiveness objectionable—can't quite remember why he should. Nor does he know what time it is, only that more than half an hour has passed.   
  
  
Colin hasn't called and Daniel hasn't said anything.  
  
  
“Listen, are you . . . alright?” His voice is raspy, harsh. He's afraid to open his eyes and see the state of either of them.  
  
  
“Alright? 'M bloody spectacular,” Daniel laughs, his own voice shaking and muffled by his pillow. “I'd applaud you, but I seem to 'ave misplaced m' bleedin' arms.”  
  
  
After a horrified few seconds, Dennis lets out a sigh of relief when he realizes this is hyperbole. ”Good. I'm . . . glad you enjoyed it.”   
  
  
“That's the understatement of--ever. My God, I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.”  
  
  
 _That's_  worth summoning the energy to turn his head and open his eyes. Daniel's still on his stomach, eyes still closed, soot smeared all around them--dyed hair going every which way. He looks like a sexy, but exhausted clown till he opens them. Then he just looks . . . like himself, only well-fucked. “I beg your pardon?”   
  
  
“Exactly what planet did you spend the nineties on?” Daniel asks, grinning. He suddenly looks uncomfortably younger than Dennis's original guesstimate of twenty.  
  
  
“I was at boarding school,” he says lamely. It's his blanket response for times when the gaps in his pop-culture acumen become noticeable. This is one of those times, he suspects.  
  
  
“At boarding school . . . on  _this_  planet?”   
  
  
“Tosser.”   
  
  
Daniel laughs and shifts closer, forsaking a perfectly good pillow to lay his head on Dennis's shoulder. His hair is soft, damp, and starting to curl slightly.  
  
  
“So . . . who's Harry Potter?”  
  
  
Dennis groans, trying to find irritation, ire--something to fend off this seemingly simple question . . .  _who's Harry Potter?_  
  
  
All he finds is old regret and scabbed-over hurt. Something he's got no interest in picking at. “I've relaxed my rule about letting . . . guests spend the whole night and already I regret it. How unforeseen!”  
  
  
“Doestoevsky said 'sarcasm is the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded,'” Daniel says thoughtfully. Then: “But seriously . . . should I be jealous?"  
  
  
"Er . . . why would you be?" This, at least, is genuine, if weary curiosity, and Daniel levers himself up to gaze at Dennis incredulously. Humor and playfulness dance in his eyes, at war with the jaded facade Dennis can still see if he squints a bit.  
  
  
“Lessee . . . enormous cock I'll grant you, but blinding intelligence?” Daniel makes an apologetic moue, leaning in for a kiss. At first Dennis merely lets it happen, as he's not one for snogging--period, full stop. But Daniel is insistent, unhurried, and eventually Dennis is reciprocating. Then bemused and vaguely disappointed that it ends. “Sorry, mate. You're thicker than London fog, you are. Good thing for you I like 'em hung, cute, and clueless.”  
  
  
“Best. Afterglow.  _Ever._  I may never get out of bed,” Dennis dead-pans, running his hand down Daniel's warm back, lingering at the tattoo on the small. Upside down, it still stymies his eyes, but he has a feeling his tongue would have no problem following every twist and turn.  
  
  
“He  _will_  ring you back, you know,” Daniel finally says, amidst a titanic yawn, tucking himself under Dennis's arm as if that's his right. No one's ever done that before, and Dennis isn't sure how to respond. By the time he decides he's not entirely unhappy about this development, Daniel's already made himself quite unshiftable, turning his face away from the false-dawn coming in through the window. “It'll all be fine. You'll see.”  
  
  
Dennis doesn't reply, merely continues to stroke Daniel's back as his breathing evens out. It's comforting in the way petting a dog can be comforting.  
  
  
It makes the time pass faster, anyway. Though the silence is deafening, somehow mocking.  
  
  
“You . . . you don't have to be gone when I get back, you know,” he whispers, his face red despite the fact that Daniel can't see it. . . .  
  
  
Despite the fact that Daniel has apparently fallen asleep.  
  
  
Well, then. No time like the present. Especially since he doesn't fancy being glued to his sheets.  
  
  
“ _Accio_ , wand.”  
  
  
One moment there's a faint tug from underneath his mattress. The next, there's twelve and one quarter inches of sturdy English Yew--with a dragon heart-string core--sitting in his palm. He's taken by a sense of rightness he hasn't felt in a very long time. The magic seems to bubble up within him, like an overeager puppy rather than a roaring dragon, now. It's eager to be of use, to effect change. . . .  
  
  
“ _Scourgify_ ,” he murmurs, swishing and flicking at himself and his bedmate. There's a momentary tingle across his skin--Daniel mutters a bit, cuddles closer, but doesn't wake up.  
  
  
By now, Dennis's eyes are starting to get terribly heavy. A glance at his mobile tells him it's half six.  
  
  
 _You'd better not. Not without me,_  he thinks. Barely manages to grab the mobile, and tuck it and his wand under his pillow before sleep claims him.


End file.
